Across The World
by once-was-serendipity
Summary: Post-finale. Jess and Rory run into each other in an unexpected place. Emotional mayhem ensues :P
1. Fiasco

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

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**01. Fiasco**

Rory's standing in front of a long shelf lined with breakfast cereals when it happens - a movement in a far corner of her field of vision, a vague alteration, a stir of elements, a faint motion that catches her eye for no apparent reason aside from a subtle change in her inner balance that comes with it. She turns her head instinctively, trying to determine the cause and meaning of this sudden unrest that washes over her. As her eyes focus on that point in space, the huge supermarket shrinks in a second and she ducks to the floor in a heartbeat, frozen still, clutching a box of Coco Pops to her chest.

_I could be wrong_, she thinks to herself wildly; she must be wrong, because it's just so very unlikely that she's right about this, so unlikely it's borderline impossible. _I'm in another country, half-way across the world, it's just a weird trick of the mind,_ she rationalizes sternly as she gets ready to peer around the shelf again, completely oblivious to the stare that crouching next to the long line of assorted muesli awards her from an old lady that pushes a shopping cart past. She takes a breath and, craning her neck, peeks around the shelf again. Instantly, she knows she's not wrong, even though the angle is bad and the glimpse lasts for barely a second. It's not the hair or the profile, it's not the clothes or the bag over the shoulder, it's the attitude and the posture that dispose of any doubt that she's right, that it's not just her eyes playing tricks on her. She pulls her head back quickly, struggling to process what she's just seen but thoroughly unable to do it, like her brain had just stopped functioning completely and she just gazes into space blankly for a moment before another shopping cart enters her field of vision. This time, the stare that follows it registers; she stands up, drops the Coco Pops into the basket and retreats further down the aisle, fiercely trying to determine her next move as she peers through the shelves, keeping track of the bag and the blue jacket that move down the next isle.

He turns around suddenly and she ducks again; heads around her turn and she can feel people watching. In an attempt to preserve some dignity, she reaches for whatever is in front of her and drops it in her basket before she moves to the end of the aisle quickly and nearly runs into the next one as she watches him turn and walk towards the frozen foods. She follows, careful to stay out of sight, remembering to drop random items into her basket to avoid appearing like a stalker, all the time wondering what to do with this impossible situation, with this impossible choice she's suddenly facing. _Just walk away_, a voice inside her head says, _just walk away and pretend it didn't happen_, and she knows it would be the easiest thing to do, not to mention the smartest or the safest or the best in general. She also knows she can't do that, she doesn't want to, and it's scary how quickly she realizes that.

It dawns on her how truly pathetic she is when he turns around again and she crouches behind another shelf and finds herself facing various brands of toilet paper. _This is ridiculous_, she thinks bitterly and briefly wonders why it's always like this when it comes to him, why is everything always so out of proportion and why she always turns into such a jumbled mess of nerves and conflicted emotions every time he strolls into her life. _Just walk away, _the voice warns again, and she considers this seriously as she examines the patterns on the toilet paper solemnly. She's not sixteen anymore, she graduated from Yale, she has a job she loves and she's amazing at it, so amazing it landed her where she is today - she should be past this kind of stuff, she should be able to deal with it like a grown-up. She definitely shouldn't be hiding behind a stack of extra fluffy toilet paper, stalking a guy she hadn't seen in over a year. _Except that it's not just a guy, _she admits to herself resignedly as she stands up slowly and steps out of the aisle, looking around, listening to her heart beat louder with every breath. She can't see him anywhere and this brings a weird sense of relief, and a fleeting thought that maybe he's gone and maybe it's better that way, maybe it's some sort of sign that he just disappeared, a twist of fate that shouldn't be tested. Resisting the temptation to look around for him, she heads towards the cash registers slowly, feeling like she's walking on hot coals every step of the way.

She turns around a wine display and suddenly he's there again, only this time there's no time and no place to hide because he's just too close not to notice the movement, even though he's not looking at her yet. The bottle he's holding has his full attention for the moment, but she knows that will change soon, and she just waits for it to happen and tries to think of what to say when it does. The bottle gets put back on the shelf and he glances at her briefly at first, but a second later, recognition registers on his face and the gaze returns in full force, dark and deep and unsettling. She swallows hard and tries for a smile, but the look in his eyes doesn't change or shift from her face, and even though he's staring, she admits it's a much more normal reaction than her own skulking behind the shelves was.

"It's weird, I know," she says reluctantly and wishes he would smile. He doesn't.

"That's the understatement of the century," he declares calmly, still watching her carefully. She squirms slightly under the penetrating gaze and it bothers her that his eyes betray nothing. It's like he's made of stone.

She points to the frozen pizza in his basket. "Dinner?"

"Yeah," he nods and looks at the pizza; she relaxes a little when the faintest ghost of a smirk forms on his face as he checks out her basket. "And that must be the weirdest collection of items I've ever seen thrown together," he says, raising his eyebrows at her.

She instantly remembers she has no idea what she gathered from the shelves during all that sneaking around and she glimpses at her basket fearfully. The Coco Pops she recognizes, but there's also a bag of Whiskas, a family sized jar of mayonnaise, a nail polish in the most hideous shade of orange, a can of oven cleaner and box-load of disposable razor blades. She closes her eyes and wishes the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

"You know, I can't even decide what to start with," she hears him chuckle. "I don't know what's harder to imagine, you scraping an oven or painting your nails that color. It's like a deeply disturbing cross-over between Lucy and Rosanne."

She's grateful he doesn't mention the razors, or the fact there are enough in that box to shave a yeti completely bald several times over. The smirk is in place when she looks at him again, and he suddenly looks familiar, like a boy she once knew, and she's grateful for that too, although she's still waiting on that smile.

"I'd go with the red," she says and nods towards the wines. "Maybe zinfandel, even though wine wouldn't really be my first choice with pizza."

The smirk fades and he looks at her. "The wine comes after the pizza," he says noncommittally but doesn't look at the bottles again, he just looks at her.

"Right," she nods, feeling bereted, and tries to think of what to say next.

"I can't believe you're here," he says out of the blue. "I mean, if Elvis materialized in front of me or aliens landed in the next aisle, I'd have an easier time believing it."

She shrugs. "Well, you're not alone in that."

"Half way across the world, and here you are." He shakes his head incredulously and suddenly she understands the absence of the smile – he's not happy to see her. She looks at him closely and there's surprise in his face, there's shock even, but there's no joy there, not even a little, and somehow, that hurts.

"What are you doing here?" he asks solemnly.

She wants to say something witty and inconsequential, but she knows from the way he's looking at her that it wouldn't go over well, and more than anything, she wants that look to change into something recognizable, something she caught a brief glimpse of earlier.

"I'm on exchange from my paper for a year," she says simply. "They have a program with the local daily, and it was a great opportunity to experience something different."

He looks surprised. "I thought you were supposed to be following the campaign," he explains, and she wonders how he knows that. "I talk to Luke," he shrugs in response to the unspoken question.

"I did, for a while, but I soon realized I missed having a place to put all my books," she admits plainly. "It turns out I'm not really cut out for the road."

"I guess not," he says ambiguously and he doesn't seem surprised. She actually suspects he knew this about her long before she did.

"What's your excuse?" she asks back, feeling she's entitled to some answers as well.

A swift shadow crosses his face and he shrugs. "Do I really need one?"

The evasiveness is familiar, and as infuriating as it always was. She knows immediately she's not getting an answer. "Fine, don't tell me. I'll make sure I stay up all night guessing, if that's what you were going for, so don't lose any sleep wondering if it worked, because it did."

The smirk appears again but it's more of a reflex than anything else. "Don't forget to make a list," he reminds her graciously. "I'd love to see what you come up with."

"Sure, I'll have it for you first thing in the morning, arranged both alphabetically and by probability. Just let me know where you would like me to drop it off," she retorts bitterly and his eyes narrow. He says nothing and she shakes her head. "Right, that's another secret then, your current place of residence? Sorry, my mistake… Let's see, email, perhaps? That might work, it will allow you to keep all your secrets and there's the added benefit of being able to pretend you never received it if you should choose to ignore me all together."

It's suddenly too familiar, this agitation inside her and the look that develops in his eyes in the face of it, and she knows she's taken it a step too far for just a chance meeting. It's incomprehensible that she feels angry at him for keeping his distance when she knows he has every right to do it after the way she acted when they last saw each other. He didn't deserve what she did then and he doesn't deserve what she's doing now. She doesn't even know why she's doing it again.

He turns away from her and picks out a bottle of red wine. It's not zinfandel, but she chooses to interpret it as a vague peace offering nonetheless.

"So how long have you been here?" he asks casually as he walks down the aisle.

"A little over a month," she replies, careful to match his tone. "Although it seems longer somehow."

"And why is that?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I haven't met that many people, I guess. I've found some excellent coffee places though, and read more than a few good books, so I'm not really complaining."

"I didn't think you needed people," he challenges carelessly.

"No, that's you. You don't need people," she says calmly. _You never really needed anyone, _she wants to add but holds her tongue.

He takes a moment to think this over, but eventually he nods his head. "Yeah, I guess I don't," he agrees, but it comes out slightly jaded and she looks at him curiously. There's something more back there but it doesn't show on his face. Very few things do, anyway.

She wants to know how long he's been here as well, is he even here really, or just passing through, and passing through on his way to where, and a hundred other questions she won't ask because he won't answer them, but she is a journalist, and she knows there are many different ways of asking the same question.

"So how come you left Truncheon?" she asks casually, reaching for a box of rice. "You seemed to have a really good thing going there."

"What makes you think I left?" he asks right back.

She shrugs. "Your current location strongly implies that you did."

"Just because I'm here now doesn't mean that I've left," he says simply. "It just means I'm not there right now."

She rolls her eyes in silent frustration. "Okay, I'm doing the best I can with what I've got, and that isn't much. If you would share a bit more information, I promise my conclusions would be significantly less stupid. However, since you clearly have no intention of doing that, you'll just have to suffer through whatever I come up with on my own."

"Wow, I actually forgot how fast you can talk. Or maybe I just repressed it," he says exasperatedly and shakes his head. "I didn't leave Truncheon, I'm… well, on sabbatical, I guess."

"Here?"

"Well, you're looking at me, aren't you?"

He's much too smart not to have understood what she's asking, so he must be doing this intentionally, but she doesn't understand the motive behind it.

"What I meant was – why here," she explains, determined not to fly off the handle again.

He shrugs. "Why not?"

She suddenly feels an impossible urge to punch him in the face. "I give up," she says dismissively. "You win."

"And what did I win, exactly?"

She looks at him furiously. "I don't know, Jess. You tell me – what _did you_ win? Because really, I can't figure it out."

She walks a little faster and gets in line at a cash register, silently reprimanding herself for allowing him to get to her again, and worse even, for letting him know that he did.

"What's with all the hostility?" he asks when he reaches her. She looks at him and, predictably, his face discloses nothing.

"Just forget it," she snaps at him and moves her shopping onto the conveyor belt. As she watches that horrible nail polish and every other insane item travel towards the till slowly, she feels nauseous when she realizes she's about to pay for them all, and for what? She hands the money over and collects her change before she shoves everything into a plastic bag and exits the store quickly. She doesn't turn back, finally deciding to listen to that voice she ignored earlier.

He catches up to her half-way down the street. "So, you're just going to walk away?"

"Yeah, pretty much," she says in a flat voice.

"No goodbye?" he inquires casually.

"No, the hello was scarring enough, thanks," she bites back and walks faster.

"You're being a little melodramatic," he points out as he matches her pace.

"That's me, I'm a real drama queen," she laughs bitterly.

"I seem to remember chasing after you like this once before," he remarks as he sidesteps a streetlamp, and she rounds on him so suddenly that he steps back quickly.

"Don't do that," she warns sternly. "Don't reach back there and taint my memories, I want to keep them as they are. I dearly wish I could somehow erase the fiasco that was tonight but I can't, so I'll have to live with it, but I'm not letting you destroy the rest of it for me."

"Fiasco? There's a big word you don't hear very often," he smirks.

She shakes her head. "Why am I still talking to you? I must be out of my mind." She turns around and starts walking again. He follows without a word, and after a few meters, she stops and faces him again.

"Will you stop following me?"

"Eventually, yes."

"How about immediately?"

"No, not immediately."

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, annoyed and agitated and tired of this game. "What is the point? You made it perfectly clear earlier that I'm the last person in the world you wanted to run into in that supermarket, and now you do this insane switch, it doesn't make any sense!" She looks at him exasperatedly. "What do you want?"

"I don't know!" he snaps back. "I didn't exactly plan any of this!"

"Yes, while on the other hand, I woke up this morning and decided to run into you tonight, and have therefore had all day to prepare for the big event!"

"Now you're just being deliberately spiteful," he warns with a frown.

"Well I'm sorry! I left all my good will and lovely manners back there with those numerous attempts to be kind and civil to you while you were busy acting like a royal jackass!"

He rubs his hands over his face. "Can we please stop yelling? My head will split open in a minute," he says imploringly and she bites her tongue and takes a breath, glaring at him.

"Okay, obviously, I didn't handle this very well, but you're the last person I expected to see… not just here, but ever, and seeing you here… well, I still don't know what to do with that," he admits sincerely.

She looks at him and for the first time that night, she gets a glimpse that goes beyond his face and it's chilling because she can tell he really doesn't know how he feels about seeing her again, and it hurts, because she knows exactly how she feels about it.

"It's not that complicated," she shrugs and takes a deep breath as she looks at him. "You either want to see me again or you don't."

He doesn't say anything and they just stand on that corner for a small eternity before she suddenly feels very tired and empty and drained, and realizes she wants to cry, right now, even before he says whatever he decides to say. She can't wait for the words and she doesn't want to hear them now, so she digs inside her bag and pulls out a card.

"Here, my cell phone number is on there," she says quietly as she hands it to him. "I'm leaving now, before either of us makes this worse."

She turns around and walks away quickly, feeling his eyes follow her down the street.

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_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	2. Reminiscence

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

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**02. Reminiscence**

Rory lies in her bed and stares at the ceiling; this once must have been a child's room because there are fluorescent stars still glued overhead, the kind that glow in the dark, and she's been looking at them for what seems like hours now. She watched them while she cried and the tears made them somewhat blurry but they also made them change hues, and for a while she felt like there was a whirlwind of colorful lights swirling over her head. It reminded her of home, and of her birthday parties when she was a little girl, and she suddenly wished she was six again. The tears dried on her face and now the colorful lights are once again just stickers that were too much of a hassle to remove.

_Seeing you here… well, I still don't know what to do with that,_ he said and he wasn't lying, confusion was written all over his face and it was the only feeling he really allowed her to see during the whole exchange. Still, confusion is not really the right word – dread is better, or even apprehension, anxiety or strain, and as she lists them all, each sounds worse than the previous one, but ultimately, they all point to the same conclusion – there is no room for joy in any of them. Tonight was the first time ever that she stood next to him and felt he didn't really want her there, and it was such an alien feeling that it stood between them like a brick wall, and everything she said just bounced off of it and vanished, and she couldn't get through to him at all.

Where did it all go so very wrong between them, she wonders again, and not just so very wrong tonight, but so very wrong in general. She somehow feels that there must have been a moment, a precise moment when it happened, there must have been a sentence or a word or a look or something that swerved them so far off course that they couldn't find their way back anymore. Something happened somewhere, something that needs to be undone or fixed, but she needs to know what it is, she needs to figure out what got broken before she can try to put it back together again.

She mentally rounds up the usual suspects, all the situations and the conversations that ended badly, and her chest tightens when she realizes how many there are. She examines them carefully, one by one, and each offers a new collection of misconceptions, errors in judgment, misunderstandings, false impressions and mistakes, and she soon thinks it's actually amazing they are even on speaking terms at all. They have something larger than themselves to thank for that, something that transcends words and language, because as adept as both of them are at talking, somehow neither has proved capable of saying any of the really important things, ever. It's completely nonsensical that they should be so perfectly aligned in everything else, and so conflicted when it comes to feelings, so utterly unable to voice them properly, without clobbering one another in the process and then running for cover, amazed at the pain they are capable of inflicting.

It's a mystery how this thing between them survives, how it endures every blow they throw at it, how it somehow reappears unscathed every time they face each other and how it never really loses its momentum, regardless of all the mistakes they make, and there are almost too many to count. As she looks back on them, she's sure they've made them all, every mistake known to man has become part of their repertoire and when they ran out of those, they just created their own. She looks back on this impressive collection, and soon she realizes for the first time that while he's probably made more of them, her own mistakes were significantly bigger. She's never looked at their track record from this perspective, and now that she's opened that door, the monsters that have been waiting in the darkness come running out and line up in front of her in all their glory, and it is a scary sight to behold. It's suddenly clear to her that almost every decision she made when it comes to him was the wrong one, she just piled up one blunder on top of another and it's no wonder that the moment had finally arrived in which the whole precarious structure came crumbling down around her.

First, she chose Lane over him, and while that was the right thing to do at that moment, other moments followed and she never used them like she should have.

Then he left, and she let him go much too easily, without a fight, in one phone call during which her wounded pride demanded its own and she let anger do all the talking.

He still came back, and said what he said, and she let him go again, and somehow, she now thinks that this was the moment, the moment of the biggest mistake, the one when she should have ran after him and jumped in front of his car, if necessary, to stop him from leaving. Instead, she just stood there like a streetlamp and did nothing. This was the moment when there was the biggest chance to turn things around and get them back on track, but she didn't take it, and everything just snowballed from there until it culminated with that visit to the Truncheon, that visit that marks the lowest point of her entire existence because she lied to him that day and there will never be an excuse for that.

Maybe there's no way to fix this, really. Maybe they've finally reached that point of one mistake too many, that point where it's just easier and less painful to let it all go to ruin than to try and restore what bits and pieces can be salvaged, and see if there's enough left there to rebuild. Or maybe he reached that place on his own, and now she's stuck here, rummaging through the rubble alone.

He never smiled today, not once, and tears return when she remembers this. She didn't think that would ever happen, he always had a smile for her, even when she didn't really deserve one, it was always there, in the making at least. Not anymore, and somehow, that is the hardest thing to accept, the absence of that smile, because it illustrates the change in him more clearly than anything he said or the way he looked at her ever could.

Maybe he really won't call. Maybe he'll just disappear again. Maybe, there will be another chance meeting somewhere in the future, and there'll be the familiar tug at her heart again but she'll sneak into the opposite direction anyway, and walk away quietly, wondering what could have been.  
Maybe she already did that today, and didn't even realize it.

...

Jess walks into the apartment late, slightly breathless and shuts the door closed with his foot, once again cursing old buildings that are five stories high but have no elevators. The view from up here is amazing but reaching it very nearly constitutes a mountaineering expedition, and he has to undertake at least two of those on a daily basis. He walks over to the kitchen and crams the pizza into the freezer; he couldn't eat now even if he wanted to. Drinking, however, seems entirely fitting, even necessary. He opens the wine, grabs a glass from the sink and moves towards the sofa, but changes his mind along the way and walks out on the terrace instead. There's a makeshift bench with a pile of pillows out here with an ancient deck-chair next to it, and it's become his favorite place. He settles in it again and watches the city sparkle in front of him, but it doesn't bring him peace he's so used to finding here because the lights soon begin to form shapes that only he can see, and they are all reminiscent of her.

_This is not good,_ he thinks sullenly as he feels her creep inside him again, deeply resenting both the fact that she can do that so easily and the fact that he always lets her. It just doesn't seem fair somehow that every time he comes close to letting go of her, every time he reaches the point where it seems there's just one tiny thread he needs to sever to be free of her, the universe pulls some ridiculous stunt that makes it impossible to do that. It happened the last time he saw her, it happened again tonight, and he wonders where and when it ends, and if it ends at all.

Maybe it doesn't. After all, she is the only thing he ever needed but never really had, and since everyone has their cross to bear, maybe this is his. Still, he just can't escape the feeling that it's not really a cross but more like an entire cathedral that he's been carrying around for years, and on that night in Philadelphia, another giant bell-tower was added to it. The load got too heavy and he just finally fell flat on his face under it, and has been trying to get up ever since. It's typical that now when he's finally learned to walk, the universe should see it fit to yank the rug from under his feet. Again.

_I really must have been Hitler or something in a prior life_, he concludes jadedly and pours another glass of wine. It goes down easy because the flavor reflects the way he's feeling, sour and tangy and bitter, and he sort of hopes against hope that maybe later, the numbness will settle in and his brain will shut down. It's an absurd dream, really, because he's been through it before and it never worked. It was his strategy of choice after the Philadelphia incident, and it proved just as futile and self-destructive as the ones that came before it.

First, he'd sworn of women in general, and Chris and Matt watched him mope around Truncheon for weeks and listened to him lash out at anyone who dared to even look his way. One drinking binge and nicely shaped blonde later, he shifted gears and a procession of girls followed, few of which ever crossed their doorstep more than twice. At first, the boys considered this to be a good thing, but when it became clear Jess usually couldn't remember most of the girls' names or couldn't care less what they were, they grew tired of it quickly. Luckily, Jess did too, and the impending blow-out was postponed. The girl procession ended, the drinking didn't, and one evening he stumbled into a poetry reading wasted and made a scene that triggered an intervention and an ultimatum from the boys the next morning. He ignored both, telling them to mind their own business, kiss his ass and go to hell before he stormed off and shut himself in his room. They let him blow off steam for a couple of hours before they kicked in his door, and by then, he was well into the guilt trip and more willing to listen. The idea came from Chris and the apartment key from Matt, and it was very clear from the beginning the arrangement was non-negotiable - if he wanted to keep his job and his friends, he'd have to take some time and get his head straight. He wanted to hold on to both and he left the next morning.

That was four months ago and from the moment he set foot into this apartment, things improved a little every day. He was writing again within a few weeks, something he hadn't done at all during The meltdown, as it was humorously referred to in emails that went back and forth over the ocean. He was ready to go back a long time ago, but the writing was going great and it was decided that he should stay where he is until he's finished with it. The end wasn't in sight yet, so this tiny place on the rooftop became home for the time being, and that suited him fine. Due to the wonders of modern technology, the displacement didn't interfere with work much either since all the materials he had to read through were in digital form anyway. For a little over a month now, life was great, it was easy and comfortable, and last week he even chatted up a girl behind the counter at the video store. It really was time for the universe to screw him over again, and it did so, flawlessly and with a whole new level of determination.

It is dangerously familiar, this feeling inside, and the wine tastes just too good again, the bottle is growing emptier a little too fast and he suddenly realizes he's back at that crossroads where he took a wrong turn once before. The thought sends chills down his spine and within a second, he sends the glass flying into the wall and knocks the bottle over with his foot before he sinks into the chair and rubs his hands over his face, pissed off at himself and frustrated with her, cursing whatever force made their paths cross again.

He could just walk away – it's not like she can really find him, and deep inside he knows she wouldn't look for him anyway. She would understand, like she always does, because it's him and it's her, and there's this weird connection between them that often doesn't really require actual communication. On the inside, they are both wired the same way, made up of the same material, like they had somehow, at some point, had their minds linked together, and all the differences between them are just constructions of circumstance that developed after that link was broken_. If that's true, then walking away is a paradox within itself, _he thinks bitterly as he realizes that she'll actually always be a part of him because somehow, she was there long before he ever met her.

_You don't need people,_ she said and it's true, he really doesn't. It always separated him from everyone else, this ability not to need anyone, and he knew how to live like that, it was a skill he developed out of necessity and honed to perfection before a sick twist of fate landed him in Stars Hollow and consequently, into her world where somehow, she managed to chip away at him and crawl under his skin without him even knowing it happened. It was like a kick in the stomach that left him completely out of air when he realized what a huge part of him she had become and what enormous havoc she's capable of wreaking inside him, and all of this just somehow developed under his radar, without him recognizing it at all until it was all over and he didn't know how to undo it anymore. After that, he still doesn't need people, but he needs her, and he hates himself for it because it gives her power over him that he doesn't want anyone to have.

It's a question of self-preservation, really; things had been going great prior to the earthquake that was tonight. _Fiasco_, she labeled it, and the word fits, but it was a fiasco he orchestrated because he really couldn't let himself enjoy being around her. He'd done pretty well in the beginning; after he unclenched and fought off a brain freeze that her appearance induced, he handled himself surprisingly coolly until the moment he realized she was actually walking away. Everything that followed came out of instinct, not reason, and the only sensation he can remember is the acute awareness that he can't let her leave, not like that, not again. Torn between shielding himself from her and reaching for her at the same time, he just delivered one moronic line after another, but he had really outdone himself with the reference to that night when he chased her around Stars Hollow. _That's a great scene to plant in her head, Jess, the single most stupid and juvenile display of your whole Stars Hollow career, complete with the jumping in the car and speeding away bit_, he groans inwardly and the look she gave him after that suddenly flashes in front of him again. He closes his eyes and feels sick.

He couldn't let her go. He probably should have, but again, he just couldn't do it. All the finely executed remarks and deliberate snubs just evaporated into oblivion when the moment of truth came and once again, he couldn't pass on the chance of her, however slim and irrational it may be. He couldn't do it then, and he can't do it now, after hours of staring at the city lights and going over all the reasons why allowing her back into his life is such a disastrous and dangerous idea. None of it matters, really, because on some weird level he knows that even if he bails out now, there will be a next time, someday, somewhere else, and the cycle will just keep repeating itself over and over again.

_You either want to see me again or you don't_, she said; cringing inwardly, he takes a breath and reaches for his cell phone.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	3. Pillow Talk

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**03. Pillow talk**

The church bell outside her window chimes three times, and almost in response, like some weird contemporary echo, the cell phone on her nightstand beeps discreetly. She had been glancing at it every twenty minutes ever since she handed him the card, making sure it's on, checking that the battery is full, almost willing it to make a sound and now that it does, she almost doesn't dare look at it. After eyeing it suspiciously for a moment, she finally reaches for it and looks at the screen. It displays a message icon and the number under it is unknown to her, but she's sure it's his because the rhythm of her heart changes and when she touches the keypad, it's with shaky fingers.

"_So, have you discovered the Temple Bar Book Market yet?"_

She sinks back into the pillows and lets out a sigh of relief before she smiles, then laughs out loud into the darkness, suddenly feeling deliriously happy, unable and unwilling to control the giggles that take her over. She looks at the words again and they are still there, shining brightly on the screen, and although it's only a question, there is so much more behind it than just the words that it's made of.

"_Can't say that I have, even though it sounds like something I should know about,"_ she types back quickly, and although she's tempted to attach a smiley face to the end, she ultimately decides not to, it just doesn't suit him somehow. It's weird enough texting him anyway, not to mention the shock that ensued when she realized that he now actually owns a cell phone, a gadget he once proclaimed to be equivalent to a dog leash in terms of what it does to personal freedom.

She spends the next minute staring at the phone, and it seems it's taking him forever to write back, but eventually the screen lights up again and she smiles. "_I thought you'd be sleeping." _

She frowns, confused. _"And yet you just texted me,"_ she types back.

The reply is quicker this time. _"I know that, I just figured you'd be asleep and catch it in the morning. It's 3am, what are you doing up?"_

The truth is not really and option here so she debates the answer for a while, but it suddenly comes to her and she smiles. _"Working on that list of yours. You know, Reasons why Jess is in Dublin."_

The phone beeps within seconds._ "Great, so it's my fault you'll look like a zombie tomorrow. What have you got so far?"_

"_Um, Guinness?" _she types back.

"_LOL. You're actually not that far off, although not exactly in the way you'd think. What else?"_

"_Nothing, really. I kind of got sidetracked along the way and made a different list." _She doesn't really think about what she typed, and it's only after she sends the message off that she realizes she maybe should have held off on the last part of the sentence. This is not the time to discuss her mistakes, or his, and she squirms slightly while she waits for the phone to sound again.

"_100 things to do with a box load of razorblades? Pros and cons of oven cleaning? 100 reasons why you should throw out that nail polish? "_

She bursts out laughing and shakes her head. So typical. _"Is that the best you can do? You've really lost your touch." _She hits the send button and laughs again.

Beep_. "I don't want to overdo it, although I've been wondering if the razorblades have anything to do with the cat. I'm hoping not, but maybe all the hair shedding made you resort to drastic measures."_

She's completely confused now._ "The cat? Which cat exactly am I supposed to have …sheared, I guess? "_

Beep._ "Okay, please tell me you didn't eat the Whiskas yourself. I've heard that people experiment in college, but snacking on cat biscuits? Really?"_

Oh, crap, she forgot about the Whiskas bag entirely. Clearly, he didn't. He never really forgets anything. _"You do realize that in the last 60 seconds you managed to insinuate that I shaved a cat bald and ate a bag-full of cat food?"_

Beep. _"…"_

She shakes her head and smiles. _"...?"_

Beep. _"Okay, so I guess there was no shaving (of cats, at least) and the Whiskas is not a diet choice . Moving on… (although I'm still unclear whether you have a cat or not. Not that it matters)."_

She rolls her eyes. When he digs his teeth into something, he just doesn't let go. _"I don't have a cat. I don't even like cats very much. The Whiskas was for a neighbor that does have cats and apparently, likes them a lot if the number of cats she owns is any indication. Can we PLEASE stop talking about cats now?"_ She cringes slightly at the white lie, but the rest is true enough and she vows to actually hand the Whiskas bag over to her nutty neighbor first thing in the morning.

Beep. _"Okay, sure. So, all that mayonnaise… you know that stuff can kill you, right?"_

She laughs incredulously. Unbelievable. Yet so familiar_. "You're clearly fascinated with my shopping."_

Beep._ "Fascinated? No. Curious, maybe. Definitely enjoying that look on your face though."_

The look on her face? Strange. _"Unless you're perched on a tree somewhere with night-vision goggles glued to your face (a disturbing thought, just for the record), you can't possibly see the look on my face."_

Beep._ "I don't need to see it. I remember it well enough."_

Her heart skips a beat and she looks at the words for a long time, unsure what he meant by them. She knows the feeling, because she keeps mental pictures of him as well, a catalogue of smirks and smiles and gestures that are forever imprinted in her brain and all she has to do is close her eyes to have them all appear in front of her. Maybe it's the same with him. Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's best not to find that out right now.

She decides to play it safe._ "Just checked the look in the mirror. Nothing memorable there. Hopefully your version is better."_

Beep_. "Take a snapshot. I'll compare and let you know."_

She laughs out loud_. "In your dreams. I'm not releasing a 3am version of my face into the world."_

Beep. _"It can't be worse than Luke's, trust me. Once you've seen that, nothing else really measures up."_

Funny. "_Yeah well, I'm still thinking – no."_

Beep. _"I don't scare that easily."_

_Yeah, you do_, she thinks instantly and a wave of sadness washes over her. _And so do I, _she admits to herself after a moment. _"I'll remember that (swans aside!)"_ she writes back and smiles.

Beep. _"Swans?"_

She smirks at the phone._ "I talk to Luke too."_

Beep._ "I'm traumatized for life and you find that amusing. Nice."_

She chuckles_. "You seem to traumatize easily. Beaked by a swan? Trauma? It's a stretch at best."_

Beep._ "Clearly, you've never seen The birds."_

She chuckles again._ "Oh, I can't wait to hear this. I've seen The birds. Everyone's seen The birds."_

Beep._ "Well, I've lived them. And there was no phone booth either."_

She can't help laughing out loud at this one. _"One beaking swan equals hundreds of birds that are capable of fracturing glass? Really? If only Hitchcock had known. Just think what that would have done for his production budget."_

Beep. _"Is this some sort of payback for that cat-shaving-Whiskas-eating thing?"_

She smiles. _"No. But I enjoy that look on your face as well. Why should you have all the fun?"_

Beep. _"Touch__é__. We're even. Can we move past the swans now?"_

"_Cats, swans… any other specimens from the animal kingdom we should discuss?"_

Beep. _"Dear God, I hope not. I think I've had enough for a lifetime."_

She stares at the phone for a moment and wonders where to go from here. As ridiculous as this exchange has been up to now, it was easy and comfortable, casual and light-hearted, and somehow, she wants to keep it that way because it's familiar territory that they know how to navigate and can't really get lost in. An eternity seems to have passed since the last time they were able to just tease each other like this, mock and laugh, and she senses there is some vague healing power in it, some elusive quality that can help them reconnect again.

She smiles and returns to the phone._ "So, the Temple Bar Book Market?" _

Beep. _"Sort of a fair that happens at Temple Bar Square on weekends. Carts of second-hand books. Kind of surprising you don't know about it."_

"_I haven't really had time to wander around the city much. Didn't really want to, either."_

Beep. _"Well, Temple Bar is pretty cool. Lots of galleries, bookshops, cafés, street artists. Steer clear of it at night though unless you're out for a drinking binge."_

"_Noted. Can't really remember my last drinking binge."_

Beep. _"Can't really imagine you on a drinking binge."_

"_You're not missing anything. I'm not very good at it."_

Beep. _"Are we talking climbing up on bars and spontaneous Blondie reproductions?"_

She bursts out laughing._ "Why do I get a distinct feeling you're visualizing a scene from Coyote Ugly right now?"_

Beep_. "LOL. Because you just know me too well, I guess."_

She makes a face_. "Girls in heels line-dancing on a bar? Seriously?"_

Beep. _"I'm a guy, what can I say? We're basically governed by hormones. I wouldn't mind sitting through a show like that."_

She cringes. Men._ "Why not just cross all the way into clich__é and throw in a pole and some stripping action?"_

Beep. _"Because that's just lame. I don't do lame. Some things I prefer left to my own imagination."_

She makes a mental note of this instantly, then blushes furiously when she realizes she did. _Don't go there_, she warns herself and banishes the thought from her head quickly. _"So no strip bars in your track record?"_

Beep. _"Nope. No bar-climbing and line-dancing in yours?"_

"_No, sorry. Just talking too much, laughing too loud and falling asleep too soon, all of which I seem to have trouble remembering the next morning."_

Beep._ " You're much too wild for your own good."_

"_I told you I wasn't good at it."_

Beep. _"Maybe you just need practice. You don't get good at these things overnight."_

She laughs. _"You make it sound like you're about to give a lecture on the subject. You sure you're qualified?"_

It takes significantly longer for the phone to come alive again and she suddenly understands she must have inadvertently poked into something that probably would have been better left undisturbed. There's no way to take the words back and so she just stares at the phone fearfully, wondering how far that poke reached. The last year of his life is a huge blank to her, there were just bits and pieces from Luke, and Luke wasn't one to volunteer information. Most of the time, she chickened out from asking for it anyway.

Beep (and she exhales; she didn't even realize she was holding her breath). _"I'm qualified. Just not proud of it. Kind of like you and your Conan Doyle phase."_

She's grateful for the last bit because it steers them into safer territory, and she can laugh again. _"Do you have to remember every little thing?"_

Beep. _"No. But this one scarred me."_

She rolls her eyes. _"You'll never let me live that down, will you?"_

Beep. _"You said Sherlock Holmes was sexy!"_

She didn't really say that, it was just one of those things when you want to say something and words fall into place strangely and something entirely different comes out. _"I'm not getting into this again."_

Beep. _"LOL. I wouldn't either if I were you."_

"_I said a brain like that is sexy."_

Beep. _"That's not quite what I remember."_

"_Whatever. You're really not one to talk, anyway. Your obsession with Hemingway is borderline pathological. There might even be a formal diagnosis for that."_

Beep._ "LOL. True. But I never professed any interest in him that extends beyond writing."_

She laughs_. "Well, when the moment finally arrives, I won't be surprised."_

Beep._ "I see you're still not getting him. Shame."_

"_I get him. He just doesn't do much for me."_

Beep._ "Well, he's no Sherlock Holmes, poor Ernest."_

She walked straight into that one._ "Nice, real nice. Any other gems in the making or are you about done?"_

Beep. _"I'm sensing a withering stare so I guess I'll quit while I'm ahead."_

"_Good call. Didn't know you had it in you."_

Beep. _"Yeah, I even surprise myself sometimes. I guess it's that wisdom that comes with age."_

"_Wow, profound. Did you get that off the internet?"_

Beep. "_Toilet paper. I have a fancy brand that comes with proverbs. I read them religiously."_

She bursts out laughing. _"There's a visual I could have done without."_

Beep. _"I can't help it if you have a dirty mind."_

"_Oh, you have no idea. I've been picturing people in their underwear ever since my first Chilton debate."_

Beep._ "Private school girls. They really are the worst kind. Tend to end up with tattooed leather-clad bikers and get their trust-funds revoked."_

"_Really? I somehow missed mine. Who do slightly jaded and cynical writers tend to end up with?"_

A pause registers before the phone beeps again. _"Their novels, if they're lucky. Otherwise, alone." _

Her throat tightens and she hesitates before she writes back. _"Why?"_

Another pause. _"Because at some point they realize it's easier that way."_

"_How do they get to that point?"_

The pause stretches this time and becomes a moment, and the moment turns into a minute, and the minute feels like an eternity as she stares into the phone and waits for him to make up his mind and decide what happens next. She half-expects a delicate evasive maneuver, if not an entirely different topic.

Beep. _"I don't know. I haven't been there yet."_

She smiles and breathes again, holding the phone tighter. _"I'd say even a leather-clad biker sounds pretty good in comparison to being alone,"_ she types with a small smile.

Beep. _"LOL. Maybe I should find one."_

She smiles_. "Just as long as you keep your hands off of mine." _

She waits for the phone to beep and suddenly she wants to see him again so very badly that it hurts. After all the messages, she even feels maybe he wouldn't mind seeing her either. Maybe there's a tiny possibility to actually form some sort of friendship again. There has to be something more than this, because this just isn't enough, not by a long shot, and even though she doesn't dare venture beyond friendship, not really, there's a nagging little voice inside her that hints at more nonetheless. It's not her place to ask for anything, she knows that, and sadly, she ignores the voice and the desire to see him, determined not to screw up again and hoping that maybe the idea will eventually come from him.

Beep. _"So, any wild plans for the weekend (aside from the oven cleaning)?"_

The telepathy is creepy and although the question is innocent enough, she senses it's an introduction into something else and her heart skips a beat. _"Well, considering we're well into Saturday already, I suspect I'll sleep until noon and spend the rest of the day slaving over the mess that I call home. I have dishes in the sink that have all but developed new civilizations inside."_

Beep. _"Lovely. When you're done, you're welcome to come over and deal with mine. I swear, I lifted a lid yesterday and something under it growled at me and yanked it right back on."_

She laughs._ "Nice to know your housekeeping skills equal mine. Any plans besides a war on germs?"_

Beep._ "Work tomorrow. I might let you buy me a coffee on Sunday, provided I get to pick the place."_

Her eyes water instantly and it's ridiculous because she's in such a hurry to type back and she can't see the keys at all. She wipes the tears off quickly and takes a deep breath, trying to steady both her heart and her fingers because she doesn't want to keep him waiting and it takes an unbelievable amount of concentration and effort to type just those few words she needs to get out.

"_Sure. Anywhere you want."_

The church bell chimes five times and she looks outside into the hazy light of dawn and shy rays of sun that sneak over the walls of the building across the street. The fluorescent stars on her ceiling have faded to white and disappeared into the background, and the day that unfolds outside the window looks bright and blue and promising, and she somehow feels at home here for the first time. She smiles, then giggles, than laughs, then feels silly for it all, and drops back into her pillows, holding the phone close.

Beep. _"Deal. Now go to sleep. You look like hell."_

_

* * *

__A/N: _

_Okay, so it's pretty clear now that this story takes place in Ireland. I love Ireland, but I've never actually been there :(  
Anyway, just a heads up to any Irish readers out there, or any other people that catually know the country - I'll do my best not to get any of the places wrong or anything, but I apologize in advance for any mistakes or inconsistencies that are bound to happen anyway :)_

_And as usual:  
All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	4. The smile

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

**Thank you all very much for all the reviews, they make me deliriously happy and keep me highly motivated and very productive :p**

* * *

**04. The smile**

He doesn't really have to work on Saturday. It's not that he lied, exactly, when he said he did, because there is work to be done, there is a novel of sorts to read through and feedback to send to Truncheon, but he doesn't really have to do it today. He just chickened out of seeing her so soon although he's not quite ready to admit that to himself quite yet, so he sips his coffee and squints into the laptop screen, pouring over the first few chapters of the wanna-be novel.

The plot is thin at best, and it doesn't hold his attention, although he's not sure if it's due to the writing, or the fact that his brain just drifts to her every few paragraphs. In between sentences, random images of her smile appear in front of his eyes and fleeting memories cross his mind, and staying concentrated on the task at hand becomes a challenge. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, trying to clear his mind again and find something in the words on the screen that will hold his interest. It works for about two and a half minutes, but twenty more pass in staring out the window and contemplating the changes he noticed in her yesterday. He only realizes what he's doing when the laptop beeps as it goes into standby, and he reclines in his chair, defeated.

This is not what he planned when he sent that first text yesterday. He didn't think she'd be able to consume his thoughts again so quickly and so completely, and it's a dangerous thing to let her, because really, what is there to justify something like that? A meeting in a supermarket and a handful of messages? It's ridiculous, he's not a kid anymore, yet disturbingly, he suspects staring into space and remembering the way her hair cascades down her shoulders doesn't exactly constitute adult behavior. The fact that he noticed how she seems to have filled out a little in some strategic places is a bit more adult, he grants, but it's not a road he'll allow himself to go down either.

All the texting was easy enough last night, it was casual and it felt familiar. _Your obsession with Hemingway is borderline pathological. There might even be a formal diagnosis for that, _his mind flashes back and he smiles. Yes, the banter always came easy for them, it came too easy and too naturally and it always felt too good. It was also the bait that they could never resist, the bait they never really learned to ignore and that always lured them in, unsuspecting and unaware, before the trap snapped shut and they were caught in it, unprepared to deal with the chaos of emotions it was made of. He was instinct, unbridled and impulsive; she was reason, cautious and careful; he always came on too strong and she always pulled back too quickly, and they never learned how balance between the two.

_Why I am doing this again_, he wonders dejectedly; _why is she_? Where does this perverse masochism come from, this twisted compulsion to chase windmills and believe in mirages when eventually, reality always comes crashing down with a vengeance. They never really want to hurt each other, but somehow they always do, and that's the most frightening part of it, really, how they always manage to do it without ever meaning to. What happens if they someday reach the point when they do it intentionally? A whole new dimension of pain lurks there, just waiting to be explored, and he seriously thinks that if they ever set foot in it, neither will get out alive.

Coffee. Tomorrow.

He shuts the laptop closed and walks out on the terrace. He bypasses the chair this time and leans over the wall, watching the city as it bathes in sunshine even though the air is crisp and smells like snow. He's restless and wants to walk it off, but doesn't really dare to leave this sanctuary. She might be out there somewhere. Almost two million people live in this city, yet he's fairly certain she'd be the one he runs into. It's the universe thing.

Coffee. Tomorrow. He lights a cigarette. _What was I thinking?_

He wasn't, not with the brain he's thinking with now, anyway. He really doesn't know what it is within him that takes control when it comes to her, but it happens every time and the shift is always precise and disturbing, and it tangles him up in knots. It's the energy, that weird force she brings with her and that always seems to find a counterpart in him, like they each hold a piece of a puzzle somewhere within and these pieces have a will of their own and seem determined to reconnect. Like the One ring and what's-his-name, the giant ugly eye thing, he thinks humorously, and although the analogy is much too sinister (not to mention he has no idea how it crawled into his head in the first place - _Lord of the rings? Jesus!_), he still thinks it captures the concept well. There is something there that only exists in her, something familiar but larger than life at the same time, something that reaches out to him in ways he doesn't fully understand and sometimes it seems to him it's just an unfortunate slip of fate that it comes with so much chemistry, because if it didn't, it would be so much easier to handle. There would just be banter, and no traps to fall into beyond it.

But the chemistry is there, and there's no denying it, because every time he lays his eyes on her, the craving to touch her follows immediately, without hesitation, always. It's been so long now that he can't remember what she feels like anymore, a fact that is only partly to be blamed on time, and much more on the effort he put in evicting those particular memories from his head. It only worked half-way, because he can still remember clearly how touching her made him feel, and it's a feeling that remains reserved for her alone. No other girl, no other woman has ever been able to recreate that feeling within him. Maybe none ever would.

_This is a bad idea, _his mind reaffirms again. The chance that anything good will come out if it is beyond slim; it's so tiny in fact that it's barely visible. Another meltdown is far more likely, it's even to be expected, and looking back, each of these meltdowns had somehow outdone the previous, so the next one promises to be monumental. The last one aged him at least fifteen years, which means he'll mentally be fifty by the time he gets out of the one he's heading for right now. If he even gets out of it.

It's not really worth it, this hazy what-if that hangs over of the horizon, it asks too much of him but gives nothing in return except a faint _maybe_. Maybe what, exactly?

_Such a bad idea._ He reaches for his phone and texts her on the where and when for tomorrow.

...

Come Sunday, Rory spends a ridiculous and unprecedented amount of time obsessing over what to wear. The clock is ticking and the time she set aside for this particular decision is running out, but she's still staring at the pile of clothes on her bed, and somehow, they're all wrong. She turns back to the closet, but it's empty, everything she owns is now on the bed in front of her, and nothing looks right. The worst part of it all is that she knows it doesn't really matter what she wears, he never paid much attention to clothes anyway, but for some unknown reason, she wants to look a certain way today, there's a statement she wants to make and clothes can help that. But not the clothes she's looking at now.

She sighs and drops on the chair, frustrated. Why is this suddenly so important? And it's such a paradox too, because if he could see her right now, he'd laugh his head off and then proceed to mock her senseless. She looks at the clock and it's past nine; that gives her a little over an hour to get ready and go because she wants to get there before he does, hopefully picking up a morning paper somewhere along the way, something big enough to hide behind while she spies for his approach. She'd decided yesterday it would be easier to be there first and watch out for him than it would be to have him watch her approach. It's not unimaginable her foot would get caught on a chair or something and she'd land flat on her face at his feet. It's just that kind of situation. Much better if she gets there first.

She looks at the clock again and time is totally against her today, the digits on the display somehow change much faster. She scrambles to her feet and gives up on the clothes for the moment as she rushes to the bathroom and pulls the towel off of her head. Looking in the mirror, she decides she needs a haircut; her hair is longer now than she ever had it before and it's getting to be a nuisance. She wrestles with the dryer cord for a moment before she manages to untangle it and plug it in, then sits on the edge of the tub and bends her head down between her knees, flipping the hair over. The tips land on the floor and the haircut becomes a priority for Monday.

Fifteen minutes and a head rush later, she's standing in front of the mirror again, brushing the jungle on her head into obedience. She looks at herself and notices that the reflection in the mirror is smiling absent-mindedly, and it's a smile she wasn't really aware of and she wonders if it's actually been there ever since she woke up. She actually suspects it may have been there all day yesterday as well; in fact, it probably never left her face ever since that first text from him arrived, and she suddenly wonders if she's attaching too much importance to a very small and insignificant event.

It was just a handful of texts; they were bright and careless (_mostly_, she corrects herself), and they managed to take away some of the bitterness of that horrible supermarket encounter, but it didn't vanish entirely. He was much too distant and much too guarded then to just shift gears completely now, and texting as a form of communication leaves much to be desired. There are no facial expressions or body language or tone of voice to steer by, there's just the naked words. There's something even bigger that's missing, the most important thing, really, when it comes to the two of them, and it's that singular energy that develops when she's around him, that force that saturates the air and makes breathing difficult, but somehow, it's that very same thing that made it impossible for her to just walk away and pretend she never saw him in that supermarket. She didn't quite expect it to blow up in her face the way it did, she didn't expect such determined evasive maneuvers, she didn't expect the cold shoulder or the stern stares, but she probably should have. He would have had to reach the end of the rope with her antics eventually. _Hey, if it makes you feel better you can always tell him that we did something _- had she really thought he'd have phrases like that for her forever? Her chest tightens as that night flashes through her head again. She'd give anything in the world to obliterate it from existence, or at least cut it short and have it end with that kiss. Only it probably wouldn't have ended there, but if she hadn't been so messed up and so very frightened of what that kiss did to her in the few short seconds it lasted, it might have ended differently. It should have ended differently.

A sharp pain on her scalp yanks her back to reality, and she quickly realizes that the brush is hopelessly tangled in her hair. _Oh no ,no, no, no, not now,_ she thinks desperately and pulls on the brush harder, but that only awards her one more painful experience. _Okay, panicking won't help this, just take a breath and approach this calmly_, she directs herself silently and begins to gently remove the strands of hair that are caught in the brush. It's a painfully slow process and she goes through it with gritted teeth, making firm promises to herself that she'll get a crew cut first thing tomorrow. The brush finally comes out and she sends it flying into the tub with a vengeance; she then finds a comb and runs it over her head only twice before she scrambles back into the bedroom.

She's running seriously late on her plan now so there's no time to ponder the right clothes anymore, and she just pulls on her jeans and grabs the first turtleneck that she sees. Hallway closet provides a jacket and a beanie, but she takes a precious moment to debate on shoes before she settles on her uggs boots; they're her favorite pair of shoes ever, maybe because it took three months to save enough money to afford them. The bag comes next, and she's already out the door when she remembers the sunglasses. It takes a hectic run through the apartment to find them, and she grabs them off the coffee table in a rush. The hallway mirror catches her eye on her way out, and she stops to take a breath and adjust the beanie. She's ready. Well, she's not really ready, but she's as ready as she'll ever be for what comes next, and suddenly the smile returns and her heart beats a little faster. She puts the sunglasses on and pulls the door closed behind her.

Once she's on the street, she dares to pull her phone out and check the time, and she exhales with relief when she figures out she's still be there early. It's chilly outside but when she crosses over to the sunny side of the street, it's significantly warmer and she thinks that she could maybe even do without a jacket. It is a fifteen minute walk to his destination of choice and she walks it casually, smelling the promise of snow in the air, hoping she'll see it once more this year before spring kicks in full time. She finds a newspaper vendor on the way and gets a paper, and feels like things are finally going her way today. She reaches the square that he mentioned and looks around for the right coffee place. She finds it quickly but approaches slowly, scanning the tables outside, willing her heart to slow down and her face to stop flushing. It's not inconceivable he's early too, but she can't see him at any of the outside tables, and on a sunny day like this, she doubts he's inside. She crosses the square faster now and chooses a table in the corner; she sits down quickly and pretends to read the newspaper immediately. The waiter appears and she asks for coffee, then begins to survey her surroundings and the people in them. She feels safe doing it, hidden behind the newspaper and her sunglasses, and waits for him to make an entrance into her field of vision. There are a lot of people out and about on such a beautiful Sunday morning but she's sure she'll spot him immediately. The coffee arrives and she tries to relax but it doesn't work. The anticipation is too great and each minute lasts a lifetime, and just as she begins to feel she's aged five years sitting here, he turns a corner from a side street and steps into the sunshine.

Her heart skips a beat and he squints into the sun for a moment before he starts walking again. She remembers that walk, lazy and unconcerned, and she briefly wonders if she had ever seen him rushing. She hasn't; she can't even imagine it. He's wearing the same jacket she saw on him in the supermarket, and the same bag hangs off his shoulder. The jeans are still baggy and the shoes she can't make out, but all in all, it's a familiar picture, although he looks a little wider in the shoulders. Maybe it's just the jacket.

He comes closer and she sinks into her chair a little and instantly groans inwardly – _hiding? Kind of defeats the whole point of this. _She peers over the paper once more then rereads the headline on page three for the fifth time but she couldn't repeat it if her life depended on it. Her heart beats wildly in her ears and she pulls all her inner strength into making an unconcerned face when a shadow falls over her and it's her cue to look up.

"Very Jackie O.," he says with a smirk as he walks around and settles in a chair across from her.

Hoping she can disguise her inner self sufficiently without them, she removes her sunglasses and points to the cup sitting in front of her. "Could the coffee come in smaller cups here? I swear, I've seen tequila shots that would take longer to finish than this."

He smiles.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	5. Coffee

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Apologies to anyone out there named Nancy, if you should feel offended. I needed a name and it was the first one that popped into my head :)

* * *

**05. Coffee**

Having set the stage and gone through the opening lines, they sit and examine each other for a moment. She looks pretty, he admits to himself involuntarily, but it's a slightly different kind of pretty than he remembers; it's like she's grown out of cute and moved into graceful. Her skin is flawless and the sparkle he remembers still resides in her eyes, but there's something else in there too - a hint of apprehension, maybe, and he suddenly feels better for knowing he's not alone in that.

"So, hi" she says with a small smile.

He smirks at her. "Didn't we do that already?"

"Not in so many words, no," she replies. "Also, you looked a little lost for a moment. Where did you go?"

He shrugs. "Nowhere in particular, just contemplating the meaning of life, the genesis of universe, the evolution of species…"

"Wow, and it's not even noon yet," she laughs. "Keep that up and you'll have a splitting headache by the early afternoon."

"It's all in a day's work," he says with mock seriousness and she laughs again.

The waiter brings his coffee; the cup is huge and she quickly asks for the same. "So what else is in a day's work for you these days, if you don't mind my asking?"

"And if I do mind? Will you stop asking?"

"Are you thinking now, or in the long run?"

He smirks. "There's a long run?"

"There isn't?" she challenges.

"Well, define long run," he suggests calmly.

"Okay, just give me a moment to fish out a copy of Webster's out of my tiny bag here and I'll get right back to you on that."

"I'm willing to settle for your own version of the phrase for the moment," he offers graciously.

"I'm deeply touched," she retorts with a smile. "I don't think I can find the words just yet."

"That's okay, I'll wait," he declares seriously.

"It may take a while."

He smirks. "It always does."

She crosses her arms on her chest and glares at him. "You really don't want to tell me? That's the second time you've done that little maneuver in two days," she points out.

He decides to play dumb. "What maneuver?"

"That evasive thing that you do when you don't want to answer a question," she explains slowly, like he really is as dense as he's pretending to be.

He smirks. "What makes you think that I don't want to answer you?"

"Well, let's say it's just a hunch. Oh yeah, and there's also the fact that you actually haven't answered me yet."

"Why do you want to know what I'm doing here so badly?"

Her eyes narrow. "Why are you so determined not to tell me?"

He laughs out loud. "Are you joking? Do you know how much fun it is to watch you obsess over it?"

She looks at him blankly. "That's your reason for holding out? It's fun to watch me fume?"

He nods, still laughing. "Hell yeah. You should see your face right now. I wouldn't be surprised if you hit me."

"The thought has crossed my mind," she admits, unwilling to laugh just yet.

He chuckles. "Then my work is done. I feel like I should take a bow or something."

"You get your kicks in the weirdest places," she declares bemusedly and shakes her head. "So basically, I'd have a better chance of you actually telling me what I want to know if I stopped asking?"

"Probably, yeah."

"Wow, you're every journalist's nightmare."

"That's not specific to journalists, I'm afraid," he sighs dramatically.

She shrugs, giving up. "Okay fine, so I'll stop asking now."

"How disappointing," he smirks, certain she won't be able to let this go. She stares at him for a few short moments, then stirs her coffee (she has no idea when it arrived) and takes a sip. The cup comes back to the table and she looks around the square for a minute.

"Will you just tell me?" she finally blurts out and he laughs.

"Nothing, I'm not doing anything in particular. I'm writing, I'm reading some novels that Truncheon may or may not publish. I just needed a change of scenery and Matt has an apartment here," he explains between chuckles.

"That's it?" she asks, confused.

He shrugs. "That's it. Pretty unremarkable, isn't it?"

"Well, after all the work it took to get it out of you, yeah," she declares honestly.

"Disappointed?"

"Maybe a little," she admits, smiling.

He laughs. "Did you have a better version in your head? Something involving secret government work or high-profile scientific research, maybe?"

"More along the lines of skipping parole, tax evasion or a psychotic girlfriend stalking you," she quips playfully.

"Ouch, cruel…"

She shrugs. "You deserved it."

"Not the psychotic girlfriend part. Nancy was lovely," he points out.

"Her name was Nancy?"

"All of their names were Nancy."

Something's not quite right here but she decides to play along. "Wow, very picky with the women you date. Where do you find all of these Nancys anyway?"

"There are places," he says shortly but there's a vague trace of a smile in his face.

"There a places to get girls named Nancy?" She laughs. "What, is it like a production line?"

He nods. "At some point, probably. By the time they reach me though, they're packed up in a box," he explains matter-of-factly. "I just have to inflate them."

She's confused in one moment and seriously grossed out in the next. "Ew, disgusting!," she blurts out, but he's really laughing now and she smiles as the dots connect. "Okay, so I take it all of that was to get my face to screw up again?"

He nods. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Oh please, spare me any more of these charming stories that are supposed to get me to make that face," she implores with a sigh. "For future reference, just ask me and I'll do it whenever you want."

He smirks. "You're willing to do it? Really?"

The tone belongs in a bedroom and she blushes. "The face, Jess. I'll do the face."

He smiles and says nothing, and she quickly reverts to what he was saying before the whole Nancy thing, determined to ignore the goose bumps that last insinuation set loose over her skin.

"Did you say you were writing?"

He smiles. "I don't know, did I? I've said a lot of things."

"Yes, all pearls of wisdom that I'll treasure forever," she deadpans. " Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

She rolls her eyes. "Running naked through the countryside."

He laughs. "Only on Mondays when the moon is full. I get together with twenty young maidens and we dance around an old oak tree and chant until dawn breaks."

She ignores him. "Writing. Are you writing?"

"Yeah, I'm writing," he admits with a smile.

"That's great."

"Yeah, it is pretty great."

"How is it coming?"

"Unbelievably easy. So easy it's frightening, really. It was much more of a struggle with the first one."

"Can I get a sneak-peak?" He just looks at her and she laughs. "No, didn't really think so. Did you start it over here?"

He nods. "Yeah. It sort of just happened the week that I arrived. "

"Are you finishing it over here?"

"Yeah, that's the idea."

"How long until you're done?" she asks, hoping like she doesn't sound like she has an agenda.

He shrugs. "I don't know. It's too early to say."

"So you'll be here a while?" Her tone changes slightly and he looks at her. There's much more packed into this question than the words betray. She's asking something else entirely and the answer he gives will also be deciphered by tone, and not necessarily meaning, but it just so happens they are one and the same.

"Yeah," he says quietly. " Yeah, I'll be here a while."

She looks away from him and concentrates on her coffee, smiling slightly. He watches the sunlight that reflects in her hair and gives it a soft amber glow.

"So how come Matt owns an apartment here?"

Her eyes are back on his and the question surprises him. "His mom used to live here. Then she got remarried, moved to Scotland. Left the apartment to him, told him to do whatever he wanted with it. He's much too lazy for the whole renting hassle, so he just flew over here once, charmed a neighbor to check in once in a while and basically forgot about it."

She smiles. "Worked well for you."

"Yeah, I'm not complaining. What about you?"

"I rent."

"Alone?"

"Yeah, just me."

"And how is that working out?"

She thinks about this for a moment. "Okay, actually. It's a first so it's new, and new is fun. I get to leave books all over the floor and don't have to listen to anyone whine about it. There are more clothes on my bed than there are in my closet, but thankfully, it's a big bed. The dirty dishes accumulate unbelievably fast and I spend more time over the sink than I'd like, but that's only because I'm unable to cook anything without using every pot that I own. Also, the shower has some issues but responds well to being kicked, so everything works out."

"How do you kick a shower, exactly?" he asks, unable to help a wide grin.

"Against the wall, usually. You have to get the angle right, though, otherwise it doesn't work," she responds with mock seriousness and stirs her coffee.

"Sure, the angle. It's amazing what the right angle can do," he smirks and her eyes open wider before she blushes, but her lips curve up in a smile nonetheless. She looks at him defiantly and licks the spoon clean, and a very definite tingle runs through him. _Dangerous,_ a voice warns. He ignores it.

"So, do you talk to Luke much?" she asks casually, and the spoon gets replaced on the table.

"Define much."

She laughs. "Oh, not this again."

"Sorry," he says with a smile. " Every once in a while, yeah. He sounds happy."

She nods. "Yeah, Mom's happy too."

"Well, it was about time. It's unbelievable how long it took for that relationship to come together."

"Yeah, I know," she sighs. "But things got in the way."

"Things?"

She shrugs. "Things, people, circumstances. It happens." He detects that change in tone again and thinks about his next line carefully.

"How could it happen so many times?" he asks gently.

She looks down at the table and plays with the spoon again. "I don't know. Miscommunication, I guess. Other people showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Mistakes. Hers, his." She looks up at him and smiles sadly. "Sometimes it just happens."

"Yeah, I guess it does," he agrees with a smile of his own and looks at her closely, but the moment passes soon because she quickly looks at the table again. A whole conversation just happened in a few sentences, but it will have to be properly analyzed at a later time because the silence is growing longer. He backtracks and remembers what they were talking about. "Is there a wedding looming in the horizon?"

"Not that I know of," she shakes her head before she looks up at him suddenly, with her eyes wide open. "Why, did you hear something?"

"What? No, nothing. But I'm guessing that's what they're headed for."

She relaxes and smiles. "Yeah, I guess, eventually. That would be great."

He nods but then makes a face. "God, that would mean a trip back to Stars Hollow."

She laughs. "Would that be so bad?"

"Maybe not bad. Definitely weird," he says, amused by the idea.

"Why weird?"

He shrugs. "Because Stars Hollow is a weird place."

"Never really grew on you, did it?"

"Parts of it did," he admits and he can tell the implication registered, but he moves on quickly. "Other parts, not so much."

"It would make us related, you know. The wedding," she challenges with a smile.

"Right. We'll be a real textbook family, incest and all."

She shakes her head vigorously and grimaces. "Ew, incest?"

"I think we'd qualify to some extent," he smirks devilishly.

"You're sick."

"I'm kidding."

"You also might be right," she realizes, stupefied. "I'll have to check into that."

He laughs. "And what if I'm right? You'll have them call off the wedding?"

She frowns at him, annoyed. "No, but I'll have to find a way to deal with the fact that I've made out with a relative." She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "We have to stop talking about this or my stomach will turn over." Her eyes open again and she smiles. "Speaking of which, I'm hungry. Is there food here?"

"Here as in this particular spot, or here as in Dublin in general?" She gives him a dirty look and he pretends to cower under it. "Well, that's a no on the first and a very certain yes on the second."

"I'll make a mental note on both, but for the time being, let's concentrate on the surrounding area, and I'll narrow down food to lunch, as in a hamburger or a hot dog."

"Wow, you've obviously learned to appreciate the finer things in life," he laughs.

She rolls her eyes but can' help a smile. "Oh, please. As if you'd rather nibble on quiches and shrimp cocktails, not to mention wrestling with seventeen different types of forks over a plate of food that resembles a floral arrangement and that you actually feel too guilty to eat."

"Hey, I appreciate a good quiche," he retorts and manages to sound offended.

She chuckles. "I'm sure you do. I do as well, in a sense of a distant and esthetic gastronomical concept, but when I'm hungry, I want a hamburger."

He sighs dramatically. "Fine, I can find you a hamburger."

"That would be great, thanks," she smiles sweetly and collects her bag.

The coffee is on her because she insists, and they set across the square casually when she suddenly remembers something and leans around him, looking for that one piece of personal equipment she knows he always carries around.

"Are you checking out my ass?" he asks matter-of-factly when he catches her at it.

"What?" Blushing. Fiercely. "No!"

He shrugs. "It felt like you were checking out my ass. I definitely sensed your eyes focusing on that general area."

"And how could you sense that, exactly?" she huffs exasperatedly, but a sparkle enters his eyes and she slams on the brakes. " No, don't answer that."

"Well, was it everything you hoped it would be?"

She sighs in defeat. "I wasn't checking out your ass. I was looking for the book."

"I have a book on my ass?" He pretends to be shocked and makes a show of looking over his shoulder.

"Could you stop saying ass? And no, you don't," she laughs. " I was looking for the book that should be in your back pocket. Where is it?"

"Oh, right. I switched locations," he shrugs. "The ass just wasn't safe anymore."

"Excuse me?" She looks stunned. "Are you telling me you get groped so much it's not safe to keep a book in your back pocket anymore?"

He bursts out laughing at this one. "Wow, your version sounds so much better, but sadly, no. I had a few stolen from back there. Hence the bag."

"You've had books stolen from your trousers?" she asks in disbelief.

"Hey, the subway in Philadelphia is vicious," he explains solemnly. "Hordes of destitute literature lovers starved for the written word take it daily, apparently."

"I'm sorry I asked," she mumbles to herself, still unsure if he's telling the truth. Probably not.

The hamburgers come from a vendor and are apparently eaten on foot, so they find a bench and unwrap them. They're both hungry and the chewing and swallowing happens in silence.

"So which book are you hiding in the bag?" she asks as she throws the greasy napkin in the trash can.

He chuckles. "You'll laugh."

"If it warrants a laugh, I probably will," she declares honestly.

"It's Joyce."

She raises her eyebrows. "Oh, are you picking them depending on location now?"

He chuckles again. "More than you know. You didn't laugh," he points out.

She smiles. "Joyce is not a laughing matter."

"Joyce isn't, but the book choice is a little funny."

She frowns for a moment, concentrating, but then she actually does laugh. "It's _Dubliners_, isn't it?"

He nods. "I told you you'd laugh."

"I'm not laughing because it's funny, I'm laughing because it's… fitting. I should have thought of that," she says bemusedly.

"You're welcome to steal the idea," he offers graciously and she smiles.

"Maybe. I'm in the middle of something else right now."

"Something else being…?"

She looks at him closely. "_The unbearable lightness of being_."

"Ouch." He cringes. "Heavy."

"Yeah," she nods seriously. "I'm only half way through and already I know I'll have to go back and reread it in order to digest it properly."

He lights a cigarette and his brows furrow."There's something peculiar about that book. It's glorious when you read it, but the characters or the plot just don't stay with you, not like they do with other books. The atmosphere does, the energy does, the overall feel of it stays, but the rest gets lost. It's like it's really…weightless," he declares, narrowing his eyes.

"That's the weirdest book review I've ever heard," she says, puzzled.

He shrugs and chuckles. "I know, it sounds ridiculous. It makes sense forgetting a bad book you read, but a great one? Never had that happen."

"What are you basing this on?" She frowns. "Maybe it's just you."

He nods in agreement. "I always thought so until I discussed with Matt and Chris once. It was the first time I talked about it with anyone, and it was the same for them too. We all read it ages ago and none of us could remember anything tangible about it. But the feeling we all remembered."

"Huh, interesting. Don't really know what to do with that," she announces, confused.

"Nothing really, for now, anyways. Maybe in a few years I'll ask you about it again," he smirks. She likes the years reference.

Her phone goes off and she digs through her bag in search of it; in the process, an impressive collection of knick-knacks comes out and gets dumped on the bench and he watches the pile grow with amusement. There's the book she mentioned, then comes a notebook of sorts, then a pack of gum, then tissues, a set of headphones, a Kit-Kat bar, a wallet, the Dublin city guide, a cd and – he can't believe his eyes and bursts out laughing – one of Luke's menus. She looks at him as she finally finds the phone and he lifts the menu up with his eyebrows raised; she just shrugs and smiles slightly, mouthing the word _'home'_ as she flips the phone open.

"Hello." She listens for a moment and her face begins to sink. " Now?" She listens some more and looks completely dejected when she speaks again. "Yeah, okay, I'll be fifteen minutes." She turns to him and she looks miserable. "That was my paper. I have to go. Apparently, a huge corruption affair blew wide open half an hour ago and they want to have it in the evening edition which closes in a few hours." She sighs. "I really have to go."

"Go," he smirks, but on the inside, he feels close to ecstatic when her face shows so plainly how much she wants to stay. "News waits for no one," he adds seriously.

She smiles as she begins refilling her bag. "Another toilet paper quote?"

"Might have been, I can't really remember," he laughs.

The bag is full and she's ready to go, but she doesn't move. "I didn't really want this to end like this," she says quietly and looks at her hands as she plays with her hair, wrapping it around a button on her jacket.

"Like what?" he asks, smiling.

She looks at him sincerely. "Well, so abruptly, for one thing."

"And the other thing?"

"So soon," she says softly and returns to the hair. "I wanted to check out that Book Market," she adds with a small smile.

"It will still be there next weekend," he points out and she nods. She stands up and the familiar pain in her scalp returns; she squeals and he looks up at her quickly.

"What is it?" he asks, alarmed, but she just shakes her head, fumbling with the button again.

"It's the bloody hair again, I swear, I'll just shave my head bald," she mutters through her teeth. He smiles, moving her hands away, and slowly untangles the guilty strand from the button. She swallows hard as she watches him do it, and suddenly feels out of breath. "Thanks" she says quietly. He just nods, smirking slightly, and stands up from the bench.

"So," she says blankly, trying to figure out a way to say goodbye.

"So," he echoes, trying to sound like he couldn't care less.

She looks up at him suddenly. "Was this a one time thing?"

He's caught off guard and acting aloof seems pointless somehow. "I don't know. Was it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Do you always have to answer a question with a question?"

He smirks. "I didn't. I said – I don't know. Then I asked a question of my own."

"That's just semantics and you know it," she points out sadly and looks at her feet, and he knows that it's his call to make. She'd taken a step, and it's his turn to meet her half way, if he wants to.

He pushes his hands into his pockets and smirks, although it's completely lost on her because she's still staring at her feet. "Remember that definition of long run you still owe me?" he asks, and she looks up at him.

"Vividly," she says, confused.

He shrugs. "I'd actually like to find out what you make of it, eventually."

Her lips curl up slightly. "Eventually? Eventually might be in twenty years."

"I was thinking Wednesday," he says, smirking still. Her eyes open wider.

"Wednesday's good," she nods. " What's on Wednesday?"

He shrugs again. "I guess you'll find out on Wednesday."

"Okay, Wednesday it is."

He shakes his head. "The word has lost all meaning."

She laughs. "I've noticed that too," she says and takes a step back. "So, I'll see you."

"Yeah," he nods and takes a step back too.

She smiles, turning around, and walks away quickly.

"Rory!" he yells after her, and she whirls around again. "Please, don't shave your head. I kind of like it the way it is."

She smiles and he walks away, grinning widely. _Dangerous,_ the voice inside his head warns once more. He ignores it. He always will.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	6. Time Travel

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

**

* * *

06. Time Travel**

Wednesday is slow in coming, and although the withdrawal symptoms begin to manifest on Monday night, they really kick in on Tuesday morning when Rory actually googles the phrase "things that happen in Dublin on Wednesday nights". Nothing of consequence comes up and she returns to the article she's writing regretfully. She glances at her phone but fights the temptation because he hasn't texted or called and so she's not going to either. Almost a day and a half to go; it sounds like an eternity. It definitely feels like one.

...

Wednesday draws near much too quick for comfort and Jess is stuck rehashing the old issues that are painfully clear to him when she's not around, yet evaporate within seconds once she comes within five feet of him. The banter starts and he forgets about it all because it's fun and easy and charged with so much tension that everything else just fades into oblivion. But when it all ends, the knot in his stomach returns with a vengeance and he remembers they've done it all before, just as easy and just as fun, until that moment when it all fell apart in pieces. He's not sure he'll be able to pick those up again.

...

The club is small and dimly lit, and the atmosphere aches for a thick cloud of smoke that should hang in the air to make the scene authentic. There's a bar to the far left, several booths line the walls and about a dozen tables are scattered around the room, circling a round empty space that serves as a makeshift dancefloor, as indicated by vague shapes of couples that move across it slowly. The stage at the back of the room is small and seems barely sufficient to hold a set of musicians, and the whole space is much too tiny to do justice to the singer's voice that fills its every corner with rich and powerful notes. The place has a distinct hole-in-the-wall sense to it, and as Jess closes the door behind them, Rory decides it suits him perfectly.

"This is like a door to Narnia," she says as she looks around, completely bewildered. "Only we just walked straight into the 50s."

He smirks and bumps into her gently, directing her towards the tables; as they make their way across the room, she looks around with interest, craning her neck this way and that, and he can't help laughing.

"What exactly are you looking for?" he asks with a smirk as they sit down and she looks around again.

"I don't know, the Rat pack, maybe," she says breathlessly as she turns around to face him. "How did you even find this place?"

He shrugs, frowning. "I don't know, I just wandered in one night."

"It's amazing," she beams at him and takes off her jacket.

The waiter comes over and takes their order; he goes for the wine and she follows suit, so they end up asking for the bottle.

"So is this like a house band?" she asks, looking at the stage.

"I guess so, they were here every time I came," he replies.

She looks at him curiously. "Do you come here often?"

"Once in a while. That's my booth over there," he points across the room.

She grins. "Having a booth you call your own constitutes often."

"True," he admits with a smirk. "I like the band, I like the space, I like the atmosphere. I love the fact that people aren't loud and generally tend to ignore you."

She nods. "Yeah, I can see how you can just sort of disappear into the walls in a place like this."

"Exactly," he smiles.

The music drifts over their heads softly, present but inconspicuous at the same time, and for a while, she lets herself get lost in it. The melody is mellow and wistful, and somehow it captures her feelings perfectly, and she doesn't dare to look at him for a while. The waiter returns with the wine and she inwardly praises his sense of timing because the glass offers a much needed distraction.

"To the 50s," she hears him say quietly and she smiles softly, nodding her head. The wine is good and it goes down easily, and she soon feels giddy and unable to wipe a smile off her face.

"So, what have you been up to since we last saw each other?" she asks playfully and it's only after a shadow crosses his face that she realizes she's just dragged that horrible last encounter out into the open. Her face pales and she grasps her glass tightly, silently cursing alcohol and the fact that it always makes her mouth outrun her brain. Jess watches her closely and picks up both on the sudden paleness and the stiffening of shoulders, and it somehow helps him overcome a dull ache in his own stomach.

"Just… a lot of nothing, before I came here," he says softly, surprised how seeing her so perplexed actually brings an urge to comfort her. "You?"

The benevolence in his voice makes her want to lunge over the table and hug him, and it's followed by a ridiculous impulse to cry. She can't do either, so she just smiles and concentrates on the question. "Well, there was the graduation, and the campaign, then a short stay at home and then I landed a job I liked, which ultimately brought me here."

He laughs. "Wow, that may have been the shortest catching up ever."

"I know," she chuckles. "We're really not very good at it. How about we try a different method?"

"You have methods for catching up?" He smirks. "Is there a list of some sort that goes with it?"

"Sort of," she laughs. "A list of questions. Specific ones, since we're obviously not great with the more general variety."

He laughs. "Okay, sure, but I'm warning you, if you pull an actual list out of your purse, I'm having you committed to a nice place with rubber walls first thing tomorrow."

She shakes her head, giggling. "There's no list, I swear."

"It's not inconceivable you have it memorized," he points out suspiciously and she laughs.

"I guess not, but that's not enough to get me committed," she replies whimsically and sips her wine again. "No corpus delicti," she explains. "And since I'm really in no way prepared for this, you're welcome to the first question."

"Yes, because clearly, I_ am_ prepared."

She shrugs. "You're always prepared, Jess."

There's some truth in that, he admits to himself and wonders what he should ask her. He knows what he wants to ask, but it still feels like it's too soon to bring out the big guns and expect either of them won't catch random bullets. She looks at him expectantly and he smirks at her. "Okay, so what was the best thing that happened to you that I don't know about?"

Her face lights up. "Easy. I met Christiane Amanpour," she beams at him.

"Seriously? Wow, that's amazing," he says honestly but suddenly he smirks again. "How badly did you wig out?"

"Why do you automatically assume I wigged out?" she gasps at him incredulously.

He shrugs. "It's Christiane Amanpour. You're you. It's pretty much a given."

"I actually handled myself wonderfully, thank you very much," she says defiantly and pours herself another glass of wine. He just looks at her with his eyebrows raised and she rolls her eyes. "Well, aside from the unfortunate fact that I was wearing pajamas at the time."

"Okay, that sounds about right," he chuckles.

"She gave me her card," she announces with a smile.

"Did you frame it?" he smirks, but she frowns at him and he suddenly feels bad. "Sorry, it's a reflex. I really think it awesome you got to meet her."

"Yeah, it was," she nods and it makes her feel warm all over to see he's genuinely happy for her. "Okay, so how about you? What was your greatest moment?"

"Are you just planning to steal all my questions?"

She laughs. "Sorry, didn't realize you're so emotionally attached to them. I promise to think of my own for the next round, but just answer this one in the meantime because I really want to know."

He smiles an thinks for a moment. "Well, they printed a review for _Subsect_ in the Philadelphia Daily," he says with a smile and utterly enjoys the way her eyes pop out of her head.

"Oh my God, Jess, that's fantastic! Although fantastic somehow sounds small but I can't think of a better word right now, even though I'm sure one exists... monumental, maybe?," she rambles breathlessly, but suddenly looks wary. "Was it a good review?"

He shrugs. "It was okay. Far better than I would have given myself," he admits with a smile.

"I want to read that, did you keep a copy? Yes, you did, you have to keep a copy of something like that," she answers her own question but still looks at him quizzically.

"Er, well, I didn't exactly start a scrap-book , but you know, Chris and Matt bought every copy of the edition within a ten block radius of Truncheon so I'm guessing there's probably a stack still left somewhere," he chuckles.

"Wow, that's huge, Jess," she reaffirms with bright eyes and a smile that could melt a glacier, and seeing it all somehow makes him happier than that review ever did. He doesn't really know how to deal with it though and suddenly wants to move on.

"So, your turn," he says with a smirk and reaches for the wine.

"Okay," she smiles and tries to concentrate, but it's getting harder to do that after her second glass. " I guess we've done the good stuff, so maybe we should do the bad as well," she blurts without thinking and cringes immediately at her own stupidity, shocked she's managed to repeat the same mistake twice within one hour. She covers her face with her hands and shakes her head. She suspects she knows the answer to that question, and they were both there for the experience.

"Maybe I should ask the questions," his voice comes quietly and she just nods, mortified.

"Okay, so – your most embarrassing moment?" he asks light-heartedly and she dares to look up. She even manages a smile.

"Did you not hear me say I met Christiane Amanpour _in my pajamas_?" she asks incredulously. "Do you think anything could top that in terms of embarrassment?"

He chuckles. "Right, probably not. Moving right along," he says and decides on a lighter topic. "How about the best song you've heard?"

She frowns. "Does it have to be a new song?"

He shrugs. "It's your method, you decide, but I'm thinking no."

She smiles. "In that case, _Year of the cat_."

"Never heard of it," he frowns.

"Yeah, it's not something I'd expect you to know. Not really something I'd expect me to know, or like even, but somehow I do. It's got this weird ethereal vibe that just gets to me every time, plus I have yet to figure out the meaning behind the lyrics," she shrugs, blushing slightly. "You?"

"_Hurt,_" he says immediately. "Johnny Cash version."

"Why that one?"

He shrugs. "It's honest to the point of being brutal."

She frowns. "Sounds ominous," she remarks reluctantly; she actually thinks she knows the song but can't really recall it at the moment.

"It is, kind of. Well, not kind of, it is ominous," he admits but suddenly regrets mentioning it because it brings back memories of staring at the wall at Truncheon. It was the official soundtrack to The meltdown and suddenly he thinks maybe this little game of questions is not such a good idea. It somehow keeps bringing them back to the same place, to that one moment in time neither wants to revisit. "Best movie you've seen?"

She laughs. "Oh God, I need to think about that… erm, _Manhattan_, maybe?"

"_Manhattan_? As in Woody Allen? Isn't that like a hundred years old?" he asks, confused.

"Yeah," she nods. "I know, it's like thirty years old or something, but I just went on a Woody Allen binge recently and I saw it again, and oh my God, it's such a great movie! I mean - _I had a mad impulse to throw you down on the lunar surface and commit interstellar perversion?" _She laughs. "That's just priceless."

He smirks. "Yeah, that is a good movie. I can't believe you remembered that line."

"Okay, you go," she says, still laughing. "No doubt it's going to be something deep and meaningful that will make my interstellar perversion reference sound incredibly lame," she adds playfully and empties her glass. It's her third and she feels warm and tingly.

He smiles and reaches for the wine to refill her glass but the bottle is empty. He raises his eyebrows at her. " We're out."

She frowns, then chuckles. "That was fast," she remarks, somewhat surprised, but waves it off. "That's okay, we'll get another one."

He smirks. "Really? You're getting a little bleary-eyed over there."

She giggles, shrugging her shoulders. "Hey, if you can promise to get me home eventually, I'm good."

"I have no idea where you live," he points out with a smirk.

"Really?" she says doubtfully. "Well, that's easily fixed, I guess."

He laughs and shakes his head, but he realizes quickly he's lost her to the music in the meantime. She's looking towards the stage, leaning on the table with a faraway look in her eyes and he uses the moment to look at her blatantly and examine every little shadow that the dim light casts over her face. He loses himself in her quickly, just like she got lost in the music, and when she faces him again it takes a moment to snap out of the daydream. Her eyes sparkle and she's smiling; she shifts her position slightly and rests her chin on her hands.

"So, I have an idea," she says sweetly.

"Why do I suddenly get a distinct sense of impending doom?" he smirks at her.

She chooses to ignore the comment. "Well, it's more of a wish, really," she smiles and her eyes drift to the people dancing for a second. He follows her gaze and laughs.

"No," he says pointedly.

"Oh come on," she grins widely.

"Wow, you make a strong argument, but still no," he smirks, reclining in his chair.

"Why not?" she chuckles.

"I don't dance," he warns. "It's part of my charm."

She laughs. "Something you don't do can't really be a part your charm, you know. The concepts are mutually exclusive. Besides,"she looks to the floor, "it's not really dancing. I mean, there's no discernible steps that you have to follow. It's basically just swaying, really."

"I don't sway, either," he quips, laughing.

Her eyes narrow. "I think it's fair to say you owe a dance," she warns sternly, but her lips curl up slightly anyway. "A whole prom, even."

He looks at her for a long time and the very real prospect of holding her slowly wins over all the reasons why he thinks he shouldn't. Maybe it's the music. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's bright look in her eyes. Mostly, he just wants to, badly, and the excuse she provides is innocent enough. It's only a dance, or not even a dance. It's just swaying.

"Okay, I'll sway with you," he smirks and puts his glass on the table, standing up slowly.

She looks surprised and doesn't move. "Really? Wow, somehow that was almost too easy," she smiles.

"I'll be sitting back down in a second," he warns, and she scrambles to her feet quickly but walks slowly, suddenly very aware of the light touch of his hand on the small of her back as he steers her towards the floor. Just as they reach it, the song ends, and there is a short awkward moment of just standing there before the music begins again and the singer hums a gentle introduction. Her feet suddenly feel like they're made of lead, they refuse to move and she feels hopelessly out of place and just wants to run. His hands find her waist and he draws her closer, not exactly to the point of body contact, but close enough to make a transition from standing stupidly into something that vaguely resembles a dance. She sneaks her arms up his and rests her palms in an indefinite position that is past his shoulders but not quite around his neck, and reminds herself to breathe occasionally.

_Memories, like the corners of my mind… _

She feels small and fragile and the space left between them feels huge and excessive, but it's a boundary he doesn't dare cross, because it's difficult to breathe as it is. The world gets lost and there is just the music and the glowing impression her hands create that spreads over him gradually, like hot water or a mid-summer shower. It's a small comfort that she doesn't look at him and so he doesn't have to keep his face in check, unsure he could manage an impassive expression while she's standing so close and feeling so good.

_Scattered pictures, of the smiles we left behind..._

The words echo inside her head and hit a little too close , striking a chord somewhere within, and the feeling vibrates in tune with the longing that the sense of his hands on her introduced. It somehow feels inadequate, this contact, it feels scarce and incomplete, and suddenly her body moves without really consulting her brain and she steps closer into him, folding her arms around his neck and closing the gap between them completely. Her heart begins a wild and erratic dance of its own when his hands wrap around her tightly, and for a moment, she thinks her legs will give out when he pulls her closer and they connect fully in a collision that sends her mind reeling into scenes that don't belong in a public place. He feels so good against her that she's sure that there has to be a law against it somewhere, and she buries her face in his chest, hiding her eyes, certain everything she's feeling is written in there for all the world to see.

It's like a jolt of high voltage current when she comes into him and gripping her is a reflex that originates from somewhere deep within, just like the distinctly x-rated flashes that follow it and that he swallows hard against in an effort to direct his mind elsewhere before his body has time to repond to them. She fits against him perfectly and it almost seems sinful that it's been such a long time since she'd last been in his arms like this, because it feels like the only natural place for her to be.

_Can it be that it was all so simple then, or has time rewritten every line..._

It's like a trip back in time, and he suddenly feels like they've been transported years back into Stars Hollow, stealing kisses and cuddles behind the diner, and he can't help smiling at the memory. When he ignores the decidedly adult dimension of it all, she feels the same against him as she did then, small and precious and completely right, with tips of hair brushing over his fingers when he moves his hands over her back and her face nestled in his chest. Every piece of her still fits in its designated place perfectly.

Once she manages to establish some mental control over the chaos of sensations that shoot up and down her body, she's able to just enjoy being so close to him and recognize the way he feels, the familiar scent of cigarettes and aftershave and the distinct way that he holds her with a fine balance of strength and tenderness. It is all familiar and brings back memories that are bitter and sweet at the same time, and somehow eerily match the song that drifts around them so carelessly.

_Memories... may be beautiful and yet, what's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget..._

It's a weird telepathy that somehow brings that last Truncheon encounter into their minds simultanously, and each remembers it vividly and regrets it deeply, even if for entirely different reasons. It left a taint, ugly and unwanted and hurtful, but somehow it slowly becomes clear that taint didn't erase or change or really diminish what existed between them before it came to be. Everything that was there once, all those years ago, is there still, very much alive and perfectly preserved, and somehow, they slowly realize that if that encounter didn't manage to kill it, maybe nothing really can.

_So it is the laughter we will remember, whenever we remember... the way we were._

_

* * *

_

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	7. Thank You

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**07. Thank You**

When they step back into the street, the world has turned white. There is a thick carpet of fresh snow on the ground and big flakes are still whirling around in the air.

"Wow," Rory says, stopping dead in her tracks. „How long were we in there, exactly?"

Jess just smirks slightly. "Just long enough for the ice age to arrive, I guess."

"It's beautiful," she smiles, looking around, but her face turns serious when she looks at him again. "Really, how long were we in there? I have no idea what time it is."

"It's late," he chuckles. "Or early, actually, depending on what time you have to get up."

She cringes at the thought. "Oh God, it's Wednesday. I have to work tomorrow."

"Well, it's Thursday, really, so you have to work today." The face makes him smile and he bumps into her gently to get her moving. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

There had been another song and another dance after the first one, and another one after that, and another; sometime into the fourth, he stopped keeping count and gave up on thinking in general. There was just awareness of her in his arms, subtle recognition of how it feels to hold her, delicious rediscovery of the way she's shaped and how she fits against him flawlessly. It was all familiar, but also faintly different somehow, like reading a book he thought he knew well but suddenly finding something new between the lines, or hearing a song he heard a million times but unexpectedly discovering a tone he never noticed before. It was the unknown part of her, the one he knew nothing about, the one that came into existence after he'd seen her last and it somehow made her more than just that sweet girl he once knew.

They walk in silence and it doesn't bother them as long as they're walking close enough to touch, and even though it's just arms brushing against each other, somehow it's enough. The snow creaks under their feet, and the street is deserted, lined with large chestnut trees and dim lights, slightly blurred by snowflakes that dance in the air, and he steals occasional glances at them as they get caught in her hair. She doesn't look at him, she stares at her feet, but there is a small smile on her face; he wonders what put it there when he suddenly realizes he's wearing one as well, and although he hates to admit it, he knows it comes from walking next to her like this, just like that subtle glow he feels inside came from holding her earlier. The smile will probably vanish once she's out of his sight, but the glow is here to stay.

"How long do you think it will hold?" her voice comes out of nowhere.

"What?" he asks, wincing; the question seems to follow his thoughts so well that he suddenly wonders if she can actually read his mind.

She waves her hand around. "The snow," she smiles. "Do you think it will hold?"

He examines the white layer on the ground for a moment, and unclenches gradually. "By noon, maybe; after that, it's slush." He smiles at the regret on her face. "Disappointed?"

"Yeah, a liitle," she admits and smiles back.

"Why? Did you plan on attempting another Bjork recreation after work?" he smirks.

She laughs and shakes her head. "No. Wouldn't work without mom. Also, the first rendition wasn't a great success either, regardless of the unfortunate fate that befell some of the competition," she explains playfully and looks at him, grinning.

"Yeah, imagine that happening," he comments, still smirking.

"Shocking, someone destroying such an amazing snowman. A work of art, almost," she says innocently.

"Pure vandalism," he agrees and shakes his head solemnly.

"I can't imagine what would posses someone to do something like that," she wonders, smiling slightly.

He shrugs. "It may have been one of those spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment decisions," he offers with a chuckle.

"Yeah, it must have been," she nods promptly, somewhat surprised he still won't take credit for something that happened a thousand years ago.

They turn a corner into a new street where the pavement is not so wide and it brings them closer together, and she goes back to staring at her feet, wondering what it is inside him that emits this unbelievable pulse that resonates within her so strongly that just walking next to him becomes an exercise in self-control. She never felt anything even remotely close to that with neither Dean or Logan, she never felt pulled to them like she does to him, she never felt really out of control. She never felt like stepping away from them would physically hurt her, like she did when she stepped away from him earlier tonight.

The one dance became two, and three, and four, and they could have gone on forever if she had any say in it. Through the music and the movement, the wine faded away from her mind, and she just listened to his heart beat softly against her ear in a rhythm that perfectly matched her own, just like every angle, curve and outline of his body somehow matched hers as well, like two puzzle pieces that connect seamlessly. But eventually, the music ended, and the silence grew louder with every second they stood together, so perfectly entwined, cocooned in that ball of energy she suddenly felt incapable to leave, so incapable that it scared her like it always did. It always scared her, this desire to hold on to him, it always ultimately made her pull away from him and it made her step away from him again tonight. It's always the same, this thing he does to her; when she's not touching him, she wants to be; when she is, it brings such overwhelming sensations that she gradually loses herself in them and when she feels she's about to disappear completely, she jerks back wildly and runs. It's like searching for a truth that she knows is out there but it requires a giant leap into abyss to learn, and in the last moment before she takes that last step over the edge, the unknown looms too big and too close and much too frightening.

And she stepped back from the edge again, but tonight she stepped back from the look in his eyes that was dark and searching, but also hesitant and uncertain, and it was the reluctance she saw there, more than her own fear, that made her turn back. It hurt her somehow to see her own feelings reflected in him so clearly, because they were never there before, there never used to be fear in his eyes, he was always willing to take chances and risk whatever it took to find out what that abyss holds. It's a new thing, this distance and restraint in his eyes, it's frightening and alien and something tells her it shouldn't be allowed to grow because it will just remove him further away from her.

"I stole a yacht," she says suddenly, in the next second feeling completely incapable to explain why those words just came out of her mouth. Maybe it is just time to stop skirting around the past and weirdly, the yacht incident seems the least dangerous.

He looks surprised but the moment passes quickly. "Well, you certainly don't waste any time," he chuckles softly. She doesn't get it and he smirks at her. "You know, usually people tend to start with something smaller – a purse, a phone, a car; then come the gas stations and liquor stores. But not you," he shakes his head. "You go straight for a yacht."

The topic is anything but funny in her mind, but she can't help laughing anyway. "Yeah, I guess I'm very picky when it comes to felonies," she says quietly and the smile fades on her face.

He looks at her carefully and takes his times to digest what she said. _A yacht? _He shakes his head. "You don't know how to operate a yacht," he smirks again. "Does that mean you also took the entire crew hostage? At gun point, maybe?" He shrugs, chuckling again. "Maybe it's just me, but I can't picture you wielding a stick, not to mention a firearm."

A small smile escapes her, but vanishes quickly when it becomes apparent she has to mention Logan now, and she racks her mind in search for adequate phrasing. She finds none, but she really doesn't have to because his brows suddenly furrow and his eyes grow darker.

"Ah," he can't help a sneer, "and enters the blonde dick." She looks at him anxiously but he just shrugs. "One of us had to mention him eventually."

"It was my idea," she explains softly.

"So you've said. I'm sure he did his best to talk you out of it," he says but the sarcasm is difficult to ignore.

"Right, I'm sure you would have just firmly said no if it was you," she snaps back and instantly wants to slap herself.

"I don't know. You never showed any interest to go so far around the bend with me," he snaps back, frowning, hating himself for not being able to play it cool.

"Jess…"

"No, forget it," he shakes his head and the smirk reappears. "Why steal a yacht, anyway?"

Rory looks at him, debating if she should let that last comment slide and just answer the question, or dig her heels in and push the issue. She doesn't want a fight and the conversation is skirting around one as it is, so she decides to let it go for now.

"It had been a horrible day. The great Mitch Hutzenberger informed me that I didn't have what it takes to be a journalist and I just… snapped." She shakes her head. "I really can't explain it. Nothing seemed to matter anymore."

He looks at her and remembers all the hangovers and faces he couldn't attach names to in the mornings. He knows the feeling well.

"Who is this great Mitch, anyway?" he asks quietly.

She sighs, not wanting to go into details. They're not important anymore anyway. "Let's just say that it's like Hemingway reading your book and telling you it sucks," she explains.

"He probably would say that," he shrugs. "I'm not sure I would have stolen a yacht, though. Much too posh."

She smiles. "Well, it was there."

"And so was what's-his-name," he points out casually. He knows the name but refuses to say it. It's stupid, but the mere idea of the guy makes him nauseous.

"Logan," she says quietly. "Yeah, he was there too."

"I actually prefer blonde dick," he quips quickly and wants to bite his tongue. Much too emotional. Pushing Logan out of his head, he goes back to the yacht and the moment he knows must have crushed a life time of dreams for her. "So, I'm guessing dropping out of Yale and that ludicrous DAR phase came after all of this?"

She nods. "Because of all of it, actually. I just… lost myself completely," she mutters quietly.

He smirks, aware that being judgmental would be beyond hypocritical. "Well, you know, I guess you were entitled to a screw-up of gigantic proportions, considering you were always such a saint." He shrugs. "It doesn't really matter anymore, anyway. You went back to school. You graduated."

"Yeah," she says quietly to her feet, feeling wounded as she remembers there had been another screw-up, a much bigger one than that stupid yacht because it destroyed a marriage, and she's sure he won't accept that one so gracefully if she ever works up the courage to tell him about it. Pushing that out of her head for the time being, she thinks of Yale again and prepares to deliver the sentence she's been wanting to get out forever. She stops under a streetlight and looks at him. "I went back. And I actually owe that to you."

He feels an urge to laugh at the words, but it quickly vanishes in the face of the bright and honest look she gives him, a look that shows she firmly believes what she just said, incredible as it sounds to him. "No, you don't," he shakes his head and pushes his hands into his pockets. "You would have reached that point on your own, eventually."

She nods but doesn't take her eyes of him. "Maybe," she shrugs. "Maybe not. The fact remains that you came and asked all the right questions. Other people have asked them before you, but I just didn't hear any of it until you screamed it at me."

He smirks. "Okay, so I guess I'm good at yelling."

"I'm not kidding, Jess," she says seriously. "You really helped me in more ways than you know back then."

He shakes his head. "You're attaching way too much importance to what I did."

"No, I'm not," she insists firmly.

"Yes, you are," he snaps back. "You're telling me that everyone else told you the same things that I did, your mother, your boyfriend, your friends and God knows who else, but you needed to hear it from me to realize they were right?" He looks at her incredulously. "Why?"

She smiles sadly. "Because it's you."

"That's not saying much", he points out with his eyebrows raised.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes. "Because it's just different when you say things to me, it always means more, it stays in my head and eats at me, it forces me to think and rethink things I do, or believe. Everyone else, I can ignore, but somehow, I can't ignore you." She looks at him again and shrugs. "Sometimes, this ability of yours makes my life a living hell, it used to drive me insane back in Stars Hollow, like that time you asked what Dean and I talk about and I went over that a million times in my head for weeks after you said the words. And it was the same when you showed up with that book after so much time, and just asked me what I was doing, and it's like I needed to hear you ask me that to really ask myself the same question." She gives him a small smile and looks at her feet. "I don't know what it is, exactly, and why it means so much, but it's there and it does."

It's a lot to take in and he just stands there, conflicted and torn between happiness and frustration, confused over the fact he's capable of having such enormous impact on her and the fact that it's still not enormous enough to render Deans and Logans in her life obsolete. The feeling she described is familiar because she does the same thing to him; after all, the fact that he writes is all her doing, and consequently, the life he's living now is due to her as well.

He looks at her, still not knowing what to say, unsure where this conversation is coming from and somewhat frightened of where it's headed, because the feel of her from that dance still clings to him strongly and makes it hard to think straight. The easiest thing, the safest thing to do would be to just smirk and say something breezy and inconsequential, and move along until he's had a chance to clear his mind, somewhere far away from her, away from this look in her eyes and the snow in her hair, and this quiet street that makes him feel like no one exists in the world except them.

"Why are you telling me this now?" he asks quietly, painfully aware there's nothing breezy or inconsequential about the question.

She smiles, relieved he finally said something. "Because I've always wanted to. I wanted you to know." She hesitates a little before continuing and her heart races a little faster, but she's determined not to let important things go unsaid, not anymore. "Because there were dozens of moments when I should have said so many things, but I didn't, and after the moments had gone, I wished I could go back and relive them. I don't want to have that happen again." She shrugs. "I just wanted to say thank you, really. It may not have been a big thing for you, that visit, but it meant a lot to me."

There's too much feeling in the last sentence and reflexes kick in automatically this time. "Well, you're welcome, I guess," he smirks and starts walking again. She smiles and follows, but says nothing, sensing this is as far as she's going to reach tonight. "I still think you would have figured it out on your own, and you know, generally, as major as it was, it's still just one screw-up so your average is pretty good," he points out, chuckling slightly.

She nods, looking at her feet. "Yeah, it would be, except that it wasn't the only one," she says softly and thinks of the Dean fiasco, and inevitably, Truncheon.

"What, you stole another yacht? Moved on to a cruiser, even?"

She shakes her head. "No, as far as felonies go, that was the only one," she smiles. "Although I may have walked off with a few pens here and there than didn't really belong to me."

He chuckles again, but his mind in on those other screw-ups she hinted at, and he quickly finds himself in another inner struggle because he can't help wondering what they were, but at the same time, he thinks it might be better if he doesn't know. The problem is that he wants to know, he wants to know everything there is to know about her, even if it goes against his better judgment, just like he knew he was going to dance with her the moment she asked, long before he actually agreed to it. It's her, and it's the universe, and it's impossible to fight them both.

She walks next to him silently, and when they turn another corner, it's the last one for the night because her building is there at the end of the street, and goodbye looms closer with every step. It somehow comes too quickly, this moment, and even though they've spent hours together, it feels like just a few short minutes to her and it's not nearly enough. Time flies when he's around, interrupted by those sweet moments when they touch and the world stops completely for a second, and before she walks away from him tonight, she wildly wants to stop it again, just for a moment. She wants to go home feeling him like she did when they danced, and she employs every wit at her disposal to come up with a way to make that happen.

They reach the steps in silence, and she stops in front of them and turns towards him. "This is me," she says quietly, looking at him.

It catches him off guard, this moment when the night ends, it feels wrong and comes much too soon and he doesn't really know how to let her go so he just looks at her and nods slightly. Her eyes are wide and locked with his, and when she steps closer, he barely dares to breathe as he waits to see what happens next, rooted to the spot while a thousand pins and needles poke at his skin.

Her hands are cold when they find his inside the pockets of his jacket, but her lips burn when she lifts herself up on her toes and plants a small kiss by the corner of his mouth; she picks the spot carefully, making sure it qualifies as a kiss on the cheek. It still makes his blood race, but she's not done yet and her breath is warm when she softly whispers "Thank you for the dance" into his ear before she turns away and runs up the steps, disappearing behind the heavy doors.

He stands in the same spot for a long moment, listening to his heart beat wildly and feeling the heat from the kiss spread over his skin, realizing suddenly just how much he wants her again, and how small and insignificant any future pain seems when compared with this desire for her that lives inside him. He shakes his head and walks away slowly, remembering what it felt like to hold her, wondering what it would feel like to kiss her, hoping it doesn't destroy him all over again once he does.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	8. Delivery

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**08. Delivery**

Work feels like a life sentence in an extremely loud jail on Thursday, and Rory barely gets through it with a dozen coffees and two aspirins, struggling to keep her eyes open and her mind focused as she stares at the screen and pretends to research the background on the story that's due on Saturday. When the moment to go home finally arrives, she gathers her notes, pushes them in her bag and wanders out into the street where the cold air wakes her up a little and she tries to avoid the puddles and slush on her way home. Once she closes the apartment door behind her, she zeroes in on the bed, discarding her bag, jacket, shoes and most of her clothes along the way. She crawls under the blankets, throws the pillow over her head and falls asleep instantly.

….

Jess wakes up at noon, well rested but slightly frazzled by vague dreams of kisses and touches he can't quite remember but feels strongly enough to require a cold shower. The water brings relief and focus, and he makes coffee and goes on a bagel run before he settles in front of his laptop, determined to work and not think about Rory at all. It works for a few hours, and he labors through a few more uninteresting chapters of the wanna-be novel before she invades his mind again and the nagging feeling to see her returns. He tries to dismiss it, but it's persistent, and his sub-consciousness forms a wicked little plan on its own. By the time he becomes aware of it, it's already in place and he rationalizes it quickly, deciding it doesn't really matter where he works. He pushes the laptop into his bag and leaves the apartment, trying hard not to think too much about what he's doing and how pathetic it actually is.

He finds her street quickly and the remaining issue of a good vantage point resolves itself when he spots a coffee place across the street from her building. As he goes inside and settles at the table by the window, he tries to convince himself he just wants to make sure she's okay – after all, it's been a long night and she had to work early. When his coffee arrives and he steals the first glance at her building, he suddenly realizes there is a very good word to describe this situation. _You're stalking her and it's pathetic, _his mind screams and he cringes, suddenly feeling sixteen again, roaming the streets of Stars Hollow, destroying snowmen and outlining fake corpses just to see her smile. _Lying to yourself is stupid and pointless, _the voice inside his head warns again, and although he'd sooner die a slow and painful death than ever disclose this to anyone else, he grudgingly admits to himself that he just wants to see her for a moment. It's a bitter pill to swallow, this desire to just steal a glance at her, even in passing, but it's there and he has to find a way to live it down somehow.

He opens the laptop and returns to the novel, glancing over the screen and into the street every now and then; it's weird, but somehow he gets more work done this way than he did before he left the apartment. The coffee is good and the place is quiet, and soon he feels comfortable here, like he is somehow exactly where he is supposed to be.

Rory appears half way into his second coffee and he spots her immediately as she navigates between puddles cautiously. She's wearing those ridiculous big boots again and she clearly doesn't want to get them wet because she watches her step carefully, and he can't help laughing when a car speeds by and she jumps away from the road to avoid the water that splashes after it. Her bag hangs of her shoulder and looks heavy, and she's carrying a brown paper bag in one hand while the other holds a half-eaten apple. He suddenly wonders if she had eaten anything today and watches her step over another puddle and walk up the steps to the building door; she looks confused for a second, but then she bites into the apple, freeing her hand to dig out the keys from her pocket, and he laughs again. In the next second, she pushes the door open and vanishes from sight.

He feels empty when she disappears, but also weirdly satisfied, like he achieved something; the feeling is strange and somehow much too strong for just a minute of looking at her do absolutely nothing. He rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head, thinking it's all just too crazy to be healthy or right or good for him in general. Having seen her, he debates going home for a minute, but the coffee is good, the atmosphere is pleasant, and he can't really find a reason to leave so he goes back to the laptop, continues reading and doesn't look up again for hours.

It's dark and the streetlights are on when he becomes aware of the world again, and it only happens because he feels hungry. He looks at the street again and looks at the lights behind the windows of the building across, and briefly wonders which one belongs to her. Suddenly, he remembers the apple and smirks; he gathers the laptop, pays for his coffee, and flips his phone open as he goes out into the street.

….

Rory's cell phone shrieks with a vengeance and she jumps up on her bed, alarmed and disoriented in the darkness and it takes her a moment to get her bearings and figure out the sound is coming from the hallway somewhere. She scrambles out of bed and trips over her boots as she looks for the light switch; once she finds it, the world makes more sense and she manages to find the bag and the phone in it. She flips it open and stumbles back into the bedroom.

"Hello," she croaks incoherently, dropping back on the bed.

"It's been five days!"

She smiles. "Hi Mom…"

"Hi Mom? Really? Did you not hear what I just said?"

"Screamed, you mean? Five days, I heard," Rory smiles wider. "I'm sorry, but it's been a really weird five days."

"Weird as in you suffered temporary amnesia and were unable to talk, type or remember your name? Or weird as in the aliens landed and all forms of communication were jammed?"

Rory chuckles and rolls her eyes. "No, not that kind of weird, exactly, but still weird." She crawls under the blankets. "I'm sorry, I should have called."

"Yes, you should have. My sanity depends greatly on you calling on regular basis. And not only mine, I might add, Luke's as well, and the whole town claims I'm impossible to live with if I don't get a healthy dose of mother-daughter banter every once in a while."

"You're terrorizing the town with me again? Oh Mom, why, why do you do that? Last time I came home, Taylor said the town council will sponsor half my phone bill if I promise to keep you under control."

"Yeah well, suck it up. You should have thought of that yesterday, and the day before, and the day-"

"Okay, I get it, it won't happen again," Rory cuts her off and crawls under the blankets again. "Can we move on, please?"

"Sure," Lorelai laughs. "So, what's up with the silence? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Rory smiles. "It's just been –"

"Weird, I know," Lorelai interrupts impatiently. "How about some specifics on this weirdness?"

Rory ponders the reply for a second, unsure how the reappearance of Jess will go over. He's definitely not Lorelai's favorite person, but he scored some brownie points with her when Rory explained his role in her going back to Yale to her mother late one night after a few glasses of wine. The problem is that she can't really remember exactly what she said to Lorelai, but somehow Jess received slightly better treatment and less jaded remarks after that night, and she decided then it was best not to poke into the reasons behind that and just be grateful.

"Hello, is that amnesia kicking in again," Lorelai's voice comes again and pulls her back to the present.

"No, sorry, I just wandered off for a moment," she says quickly.

"Well, wander back and let's hear about this weirdness!"

"Okay, but you know, it's really strange," Rory repeats again.

"Yes, you've said that already, several times, and it's getting old, so spill," Lorelai says, sounding slightly agitated.

Rory sighs and takes a breath. "Jess is here."

A silence follows. "Please don't get pregnant," Lorelai's voice comes breathlessly.

Rory sits up in her bed, gaping. "What?"

"Do you need me to repeat that? I said, please don't –"

"No, I heard what you said, and I'm begging you not to repeat it," Rory shakes her head, "but holy crap, Mom, I tell you Jess is here and you immediately go to sex? "

"Well, it was the first thing that came into my head!"

"Why," Rory asks exasperatedly, "why would that be the first thing that comes into your head?"

"I don't know, don't ask me to explain how my mind works, that's dangerous territory, you know that!"

"Yeah, trust me – I know, but please just humor me and shed some light on this. It's ridiculous, even for you, and that says a lot!"

A sigh comes over the line. "I don't know, it's just this energy between you two, it was always there, even when you were kids and it was frightening then because you were so young." There's a short pause before her voice comes again. "And if I remember correctly, you were thinking the same thing back then."

Rory blushes, suddenly grateful Lorelai can't see her face. "Yeah, I know," she mumbles and shakes the memory off quickly. "But we haven't seen each other for years and I can't believe that's the first place your mind goes to."

Lorelai laughs softly. "Well, some things never change."

Rory agrees silently but pushes the thought out of her mind again. "Okay, can we just skip this very disturbing and slightly inappropriate dimension we wandered into and have a somewhat normal conversation about this?"

"Sure," Lorelai says promptly. "Okay, so Jess. How did that happen?"

"Which part? Him being here or me knowing about it?"

"Well, both, really. But you decide how you want to go about it."

"He's writing another book. Said he came over because he needed a change of scenery."

"What was wrong with scenery in Philly?"

"I don't know. We haven't gotten that far yet."

"Right. Never was much of a talker, that one," Lorelai remarks flatly.

"He talked, Mom. Well, he talked to me."

"If you say so. I never really witnessed the phenomenon, so I couldn't say. Anyway, what's with the past tense? He doesn't talk anymore?"

"He still talks."

"Just not about the scenery in Philly?"

"No, not about that. Not yet, anyway."

"Okay, moving on. How did you two find each other over there?"

"Just ran into each other in a supermarket."

"Wow, how uninteresting. Not the greatest spot for a reunion."

"Yeah, it was pretty bad actually. Picked up a little since then though," Rory smiles as she remembers the night before.

"Since then? Oh wait, I know, I just had an epiphany, and everything makes sense – the supermarket meeting must have been five days ago, right? Jess reappears and you forget all about your poor mother. And then you're surprised when I beg you not to get pregnant…"

"I'm ignoring the last part," Rory warns and continues, "but yeah, it was five days ago, and I didn't forget about you, it was just a lot to take in."

There's a silence again and Lorelai's tone turns softer. "So, how is it going?"

Rory smiles. "Okay, I guess. Better than I expected, actually."

"Yeah, okay. And where is it going, exactly?"

Rory blushes. "I don't know."

"Nice, very ambiguous," Lorelai quips shortly. "Okay, where do you want it to go?"

"Okay, if you mention sex again, I'm hanging up," Rory warns, frowning.

"I wasn't going to mention it, but clearly, I don't have to, do I? Anyway, that's not what I meant. What I meant was… it's Jess and it's you, and it seems like you two just keep bumping into each other." A sigh follows. "Listen, Rory, you're not a kid anymore and I'm done parenting you; I think I've done a pretty good job and your head is screwed on right. I have faith in your choices. I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I know. But Jess won't hurt me, Mom," Rory says, hoping she's right.

"Okay. Okay, if you say so. Just, you know… be careful." A sound of a doorbell comes across the line. "Oh, shoot, I have to go. Sookie's here with the kids. I love you, hon, and please call, okay?"

"What? Wait, no! You never told me how things are over there!"

"Well, call, and you'll find out! Oh, and yeah – don't get pregnant! Love ya, bye!"

"Mom!" Rory yells into the phone but the line is dead. She shakes her head and laughs, dropping back into the pillows. She barely has time to take a breath when the phone shrieks again and she grins, flipping it open.

"If you mention sex, I swear I'll scream!" she laughs, thinking how much she loves her crazy mother.

"Wow, if the word alone makes you scream…," comes a different voice and she jerks up on the bed and hits her head on the bedpost.

"Jess, hi" she says breathlessly, blushing furiously.

"I'd love to know why mentioning sex would make you scream though," he continues mercilessly. "Or is that just the way you usually answer your phone?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, certain she'll never hear the end of it. "No, this is not how I usually answer my phone," she says exasperatedly.

"No? Okay, that brings me to my next question – is that the way you answer your phone when I call you?"

"What? No!," she protests a little too quickly. "I didn't know it was you, I never looked at the number!"

"Interesting," he chuckles and she rolls her eyes. "Moving right along – who did you think was calling?"

"Can we just forget about this?" she asks, although she knows it's a futile effort.

"I can't. It's forever imprinted in my brain," he laughs. "Who did you think was calling?"

The truth would sound much too weird so she goes for the next best thing. "Lane," she lies smoothly. "I was just talking to her and I thought she was calling back."

"Is this a regular topic for you two nowadays?" he asks and she can see the smirk forming on his face.

"That's none of your business, really," she says sweetly.

"Okay, but you know what they say – if you have to talk about it, it's either not good or you aren't getting any," he chuckles and she suddenly feels like the room has grown ten degrees hotter.

"I'm done talking about this now," she says sternly, feeling much too unprepared for this particular level of banter. It's new and brings about thoughts she can't deal with right now.

He chuckles. "Fine, but be warned, I'll definitely come back to it eventually."

"Noted," she laughs and relaxes into the pillows, rubbing the lump that's forming on top of her head.

"So, how did you survive today?" he asks casually.

"Barely," she sighs. "I actually think I managed to sleep with my eyes open at work. You?"

He laughs. "Slept till noon, drank coffee afterwards, read half-way through material that aspires to be a novel but can't quite get there. It was a pretty productive day, actually."

"I hate you," she says flatly.

"Hey, I can't help your career choice," he chuckles.

She opens her mouth to reply but the doorbell sounds and it catches her by surprise. "Hey, there's someone at the door. I have to go," she says quickly, wondering who it could possibly be at nine o'clock in the evening.

"Yeah, it's about that time," he chuckles.

"About what time?" she asks as she crawls out of bed, looking around for a pair of pants.

"The time for the door-bell. Enjoy," he says casually and the line goes dead.

She looks at the phone for a moment, confused, then throws it on the bed before she finds her pajamas and pulls them on. She hurries to the door and looks through the peephole, and there's a boy standing outside. Still confused, she opens the door.

"Hi," she says. "Can I help you?"

"Delivery," the boy says in a bored tone and lifts a plastic bag.

"I didn't order anything," she says, completely clueless.

He frowns and checks a receipt inside the bag. "Rory Gilmore?"

Weird. "Yeah," she nods, "but I still didn't order anything."

"Well, it's already paid for so you may as well take it," the boy shrugs and hands her the bag.

Getting weirder, but she's hungry and the bag smells good. "Okay, I guess," she says. "Thanks."

The boy nods and she closes the door and takes the enigmatic bag into the kitchen; once she unpacks it, she discovers several boxes of Indian food inside but no clues as to who they came from. She thinks about this mystery for a moment; it's actually pretty easy to figure out and she smiles and shakes her head before she returns to the bedroom in search of her phone. _The time for the door-bell. Enjoy._ She smiles wider and dials.

"Yeah," Jess says casually but she can sense a grin behind the word.

"You sent me food," she says, smiling.

"Did I?" he chuckles.

"Well, I got food, so if you meant to send something else, there was a major screw-up somewhere along the way," she laughs as she starts opening the boxes. "Oh, it smells great!"

"I don't know about that, it's supposed to be Indian so _it stinks to high heaven _would probably be closer to the truth," he laughs.

"You sound like my mother," she points out, grinning.

"Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd hear," he chuckles bemusedly.

She laughs. "Scary, isn't it?" She finds a fork and sits down. "So what made you send me food?"

"I don't know. Couldn't really picture you cooking, since you slept about three hours last night and then had to suffer through a whole day at work. I bet you got home and fainted, so I thought you could use a dinner when you woke up."

"How very shrewd of you," she remarks. "You're right, I'm starving."

He laughs. "Well, enjoy and good luck getting the smell out. Hopefully you won't have to burn the place down to get rid of it."

She smiles and her heart beats a little faster but she tries her best to deliver the next line casually. "So how come you didn't deliver this feast yourself? You always used to."

There's a short silence but it ends with a chuckle. "Well, there's the whole stink issue; also, I was too lazy to get dressed, and actually, I thought that another potentially long night would totally destroy your job performance."

She smiles. "You're worried about me. That's so sweet."

"I'm not worried," he says quickly.

"Yes, you are. You didn't want me to starve and you wanted me to get enough sleep. It's adorable," she declares with a grin.

"Adorable," he repeats, sounding nauseous. "Every guy in the world dreams of being described as adorable. I feel like I should tie a red bow around my neck and wiggle my tail."

She laughs. "I wouldn't mind seeing that," she states playfully and digs into the first box.

"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you," he points out, and she can see the smirk again.

"I'd settle for the bow," she mumbles with a mouthful.

"Okay, I hate to come between you and food, so I'll let you eat," he laughs.

Her heart sinks and she swallows in a rush as her minds scrambles for a way to ensure she sees him again soon. "I guess I owe you a dinner," she says quickly and waits on tenterhooks for his voice to come again.

He laughs softly. "Yeah, I guess you do."

She smiles, relaxing slowly. "Are there any good video stores around here?"

The shift of topic seems to throw him off a little. "I don't know about any around your place, but there's one around the corner from my building."

"Okay, so how about you get a movie tomorrow and come over? I'll cook," she says loosely and crosses her fingers.

He laughs. "Oh no, that won't work." There's a sudden feeling of emptiness and her throat tightens for a moment. "I'm not picking the movie alone and then having you complain about it all night."

She dares to breathe again and manages a laugh. "I won't complain, I promise."

"Still no," he says firmly. "No, we pick the movie together and we can watch it at my place."

"And what about dinner?"

"You can cook here. Amazing as it may sound, I actually own a stove and more than a few pots and pans, and also, I'm pretty sure I have more actual food in my fridge than you do."

She laughs out loud and nods her head, but then remembers they're on the phone. "Yeah okay, that works."

"Okay. I'll text you the directions and I'll see you tomorrow. When do you think you'll be hungry?"

She shrugs, smiling. "I don't know. Eight o'clock sounds promising."

"Yeah, same here. So, I'll see you," he chuckles softly and every hair on her body stands up on end.

"Yeah, you will," she confirms with a smile and flips the phone closed.

The smile stays as she digs into the food, but suddenly she remembers she forgot something. She flips the phone open again and quickly types _Thanks for dinner. I love that you worry about me. _She hesitates for a moment, but ultimately attaches a smiley face at the end before she sends the message off.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	9. Movie Night

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**09. Movie night**

"_All the president's men?_" Rory asks, lifting up the box.

Jess shakes his head. "Too much."

She picks another box. "_The graduate?_"

He smirks. "Are you dead-set on Dustin Hoffman tonight?"

"No, I just feel like watching something old and good," she shrugs, laughing. She picks up another box. "_African Queen?_"

"Too old," he laughs out loud and lifts a box of his own. "_Seven samurai_?"

"Just as old, and I'm not really in the mood for subtitles," she grimaces. "_The deer hunter?"_

"Too depressing," he smirks.

"Okay, forget about the classics," she smiles and moves down the aisle. "_Bridges of Madison county?_"

"You'll bawl your eyes out," he chuckles. "You'll be wailing for the last thirty minutes of it."

She looks at the box. "Really? I've never seen it. Is it worth the wailing?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. It's not bad. Great photography."

"Okay, I'll make a mental note, " she smiles and puts the box back.

"_Zodiac?_" he suggests, looking over another box.

"Just seen it a few weeks ago. Awesome soundtrack, somewhat disturbing plot. It's supposedly based on the actual case files, which makes the whole thing even more disturbing."

He puts the box down and looks at her over the shelf. "Okay, this is proving a lot harder than I thought it would be," he smirks.

She laughs. "I know, that's why I said you should just bring the movie with you."

"Hey, I have a suggestion, if you don't mind my butting in," the guy behind the counter says suddenly and they both turn towards him.

"Sure, go ahead," Jess says, his eyebrows raised.

"How about just flying blind?" he points to a shelf behind them. "There's ten movies in blank boxes over there. Just pick a random box and, you know, be surprised."

They turn around and look at the shelf. "So, feel like venturing into the unknown?" Jess asks, smirking.

"Sure, why not? We just might grow roots here otherwise," she shrugs, smiling. "Just pick one."

"Might be a disaster," he points out.

"So what? We'll just mock it senseless then," she says carelessly.

"Okay," he frowns and picks a box.

"Great, let's go, I'm starving and I still have to cook," she says brightly and follows him to the counter then out the door.

It's getting dark out; the streetlights are on and Rory tries to avoid the puddles again and Jess tries not to laugh at the way she skips around them.

"So what's in the bag?" he asks with a smirk.

"Dinner," she smiles.

"You don't actually have to cook, you know," he points out casually. "We can just get take-out."

She looks offended. "I'm perfectly capable of making dinner," she says sternly.

"I'm sure you are," he laughs. "It's whether I'm capable of digesting it or not that worries me."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she frowns and jumps over another puddle. "I'll remind you that you said that once you lick your plate clean."

"Okay, don't bite my head off," he laughs and pushes the building door open for her. "You want me to take that?" he points to the bag but she just rolls her eyes at him and he shrugs. "Okay, but it's a long way up."

"I'll manage," she says and starts up the stairs. "Just let me know when to stop."

"Well, once you run out of stairs, you're right where you're supposed to be," he chuckles and follows her up.

She's out of breath by the time she reaches the top floor and she leans against the wall, panting. "This is ridiculous. Why is there no elevator in here?"

He laughs as he unlocks the door. "I ask myself that very same question at least twice every day."

He pushes the door open and turns the light on, and she follows him inside, suddenly out of breath for completely different reasons because the space she steps into is just so very much him that she loses herself in it for a moment, feeling completely swallowed by the energy that lives here. It's relatively small; she's standing in the living-room furnished with a huge sofa that looks big enough and comfortable enough to sleep on. There's a coffee table in front of it and a tv on a small cupboard across the room next to the two chairs that sit by a small table that separates the kitchen from the living area. Beyond the sofa, there is a tall book shelf that runs parallel with the two steps that go up to a higher level of flooring which houses a big desk that sits in front of a huge slanted window. As she looks outside, her jaw drops at the spectacular view of the city. She walks over, climbs the stairs to the window and stares outside, completely in awe.

"Oh my god, this view makes all that climbing totally worth while," she says breathlessly, looking at the lights and the endless sky above them.

Jess laughs. "Well, I try to think about that every time I face that staircase," he smirks, taking his jacket off. "Doesn't always help."

She smiles and turns away from the window, catching a glimpse of the bed that sits to the side, across from the desk. She didn't see it from the living room because the tall bookcase blocks it from view and she quickly realizes she's standing in his bedroom; suddenly, there are a million butterflies in the pit of her stomach and the room feels unusually hot. She looks after him quickly, but he's putting his jacket away and she dares to steal another glance at the bed. It's big and covered with blankets and there is at least a dozen books scattered on the floor around it. The sheets are blue and the pillows don't match them, and she suddenly wonders what it smells like and how many girls have known that scent. The last thought stings and she turns away from it quickly, looking to the window again. There are several plants on the floor in front of it and she smiles.

"You have plants," she says quietly. "That's so sweet."

He puts the movie on the coffee table and turns towards her. "I don't have plants," he smirks.

"There are six plants next to my foot, Jess," she remarks and points at them. "And they have colorful pots and everything."

"They're not mine," he says defensively.

"You live here, don't you?" she raises her eyebrows.

He shrugs. "Yeah, but I don't own the plants," he points out. "They were here before me."

She laughs. "Okay, but you adopted them," she declares with a grin. "So in a way, they're your plants now."

"I didn't adopt the plants," he says determinedly.

She shakes her head. "Do you water the plants, Jess?" She looks at the plants again and smiles wider. "I'm sure you water them, because they'd be all kinds of dead by now if you didn't," she chuckles.

He frowns and crosses his hands on his chest; she laughs and walks back down into the livingroom. She takes her jacket off and hands it to him, still smiling. "You have plants and it's sweet," she says pointedly and takes her bag into the kitchen. "Do you have a little watering can and everything? Oh, do they have names?" she calls over her shoulder as she sets the bag on the counter and starts taking items out of it.

"Can we forget about the plants?" he asks exasperatedly as he joins her in the kitchen.

She laughs. "Sure, but I'll come back to the names thing later," she warns, grinning. "For now though, let's talk cooking."

He leans against the counter. "You're really going to cook?" he asks bemusedly. "That I have to see." He checks the items on the counter. "So, what have we here? Tomatoes, green onions, chicken, rice, and – " he picks up a jar "- a sauce of some kind? Uncle Ben's sweet and sour?" He smirks at her. "Are you sure you don't want to make this from scratch?" She rolls her eyes at him and rinses the chicken in the sink. He returns to the jar and squints at the label, then looks at her with his eyebrows raised. "Is there really pine-apple in here?"

She takes the jar from him and frowns. "Okay, I need a frying pan, a medium sized pot, a salad bowl, a ladle, a cutting board and a knife, preferably not too sharp because that would be dangerous, " she lists quickly and lifts her eyebrows.

"Okay, so obviously, you really are going to cook," he smirks again and reaches for a cupboard over her head. Space is scarce and as he maneuvers around her in search of items she mentioned, the butterflies in her stomach return again when his hand brushes against her here and there and sends tingles running over her skin. Once he's done getting what she asked for, he leans against the counter again, opens a drawer and pulls out a ladle, dangling it in front of her. "Anything else?" he smirks. "An apron, maybe? Something white, short and frilly? You know, French chamber-maid style?"

She leans against the counter as well. "Is that what you wear when you cook? It must be, if you have one just lying around."

He shakes his head, laughing. "No, but I'll be happy to run out and get one right now if you promise to wear it."

She throws him a dirty look and takes the ladle before she turns to the chicken and starts slicing it. He sits up on the counter and scratches his head. "Of course, the apron in question would be ridiculous without the silk stockings" he continues casually. "But I'm sure I could find some of those as well."

She looks at him quizzically, ignoring the comment. "Oil?"

He reaches behind him and hands her the bottle. "Heels too," he adds. "Silk stockings make no sense without heels."

She dumps the chicken into the frying pan and looks him straight in the eye. "I'm sorry, are my sweatpants not doing it for you?" she smiles sweetly. "Maybe if I push them a bit lower?"

He can't seem to find his voice for a moment and she jots down a small victory as she turns to the chicken again, afraid she'll blush and ruin the moment; her heart beats wildly but she smiles to herself when she hears him clear his throat before he speaks again.

"So, can I help?" he asks suddenly and she smiles wider.

"With the cooking or the pants?" she asks matter-of-factly as she stirs the chicken around.

He smirks. "The cooking, for now."

She smiles and looks at him again. "Actually, yeah."

"Okay, what do you want me to do?"

"Get out of here," she grins. "This will go much faster without you breathing down my neck." She pushes him off the counter and points to the living-room. "Go, sit over there, read or something, and I'll be done in twenty minutes. Stay here and be annoying, and it will take an hour before we actually eat, and I'm hungry and not willing to wait that long."

He throws his hands up in defeat. "Okay fine, I'll go," he laughs and walks away. She turns back to the stove and catches her breath, once again amazed how easily he can make her head spin in circles and how quickly her mind goes from slicing chicken to just jumping him right on that counter.

Jess settles on the couch and turns on the TV, pretending to watch it while he actually looks at her as she moves around the kitchen. Her hair is up today, curled up on top of her head in a messy bun and held together by a hairclip. She's wearing a loose shirt, and the sweatpants are low enough for skin to show when she reaches for spices above her head; she reaches often and it's a sweet torture every time. Within minutes, he's staring blatantly, watching the shirt move this way and that, and he snaps out of it only when she starts humming softly as a familiarl video comes on the tv. He turns the volume up so she can hear it better and rubs his hands over his face, thinking this was not a good idea, being alone with her here, with this crazy urge to kiss her that has been growing stronger ever since that near-kiss she sneaked on him the other day. He looks at her again, hopelessly, thinking he's probably never been more scared of anything in his whole life than he is of kissing this tiny girl that is slicing tomatoes in his kitchen right now. At the same time, he's sure he never wanted to do anything as badly as he wants to kiss her.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head in frustration, hating the fact that she can tie him up in knots so effortlessly, that she can do it so easily after so much time and so much strain to forget about her, that she can move things inside him in her sweatpants that other girls couldn't in lace and satin and silk. It's unfair and it's dangerous, because it takes her so little to reach so deep, but it's a small blessing that she doesn't understand this at all, she has no idea of the havoc she can wreak and it's a matter of self-preservation that she never finds out.

She stretches and opens the cupboard over her head; the shirt travels up to new heights and he swallows against the heat that spreads all over. She turns around and he looks at the tv quickly.

"Plates?" she calls over her shoulder and it takes him a moment to understand the word.

"To your left," he yells back and watches her pull two out and set them on the counter. She puts the rice on them, then covers it with the sauce and sets the plates on the table. Next comes the cutlery and the salad, and after it's all in place, she smiles at him.

"Okay, you're allowed back here now," she says brightly and settles in a chair.

He gets up and walks past her, opening the fridge. "Beer, wine, or something non-alcoholic?"

"I'll go with beer, thanks," she says and he pulls out two bottles.

"Glass?" he asks.

She laughs. "It's not that kind of dinner, the bottle is fine."

He sits across her, smirking. "If your grandmother could see you now…"

"Bite your tongue," she smiles and picks up her fork. He does the same and looks at his plate.

"Looks good," he smirks. "Doesn't smell deadly either."

"Just shut up and eat," she quips but watches his face carefully as he takes a mouthful. There's no cringing and she exhales.

"Wow, this is actually edible," he smirks. "I'm impressed."

She smiles. "I hate to gloat, but I told you so," she says playfully.

"You did, " he nods. "I stand corrected. I'll never question your cooking abilities again."

"Or any other abilities I claim to posses," she smiles. "It'll save you a lot of future embarrassment."

"Okay, noted," he laughs, shaking his head.

The food disappears quickly and they recline in their chairs, going for the beer.

"So, you about ready to open that box?" he smirks, nodding towards the movie on the coffee table.

She laughs. "The big movie surprise? Sure," she says and walks over to the couch where she settles in a corner, kicks off her boots and tucks her feet under her. "I'll let you do the honors."

He stops by the fridge and brings two more bottles to the coffee table before he sits on the floor and picks up the box. "Dare to venture any guesses?"

She frowns. "I'm thinking something gory and filled with blood and corpses," she sighs. "Hopefully I'll be able to keep my dinner down," she laughs.

"Okay, here goes," he smirks and opens the box. His face screws up in a mix of shock and amusement, and a moment later, he bursts out laughing. "Unbelievable," he chokes out between snorts.

"Well, what is it?" she asks impatiently, craning her neck.

He looks at her. "Are you ready for this?"

"Just spill already," she says quickly.

He lifts the disc up. "_Gone with the wind," _ he announces solemnly.

She bursts out laughing. "You picked _Gone with the wind_?"

He throws her a dirty look. "No, I picked a blank box, remember?"

Still laughing, she reaches for the beer and takes a sip. "I know, but still, some force made you go for that particular box," she shrugs.

He rolls his eyes and turns the disc over in his hands. "Are we watching this or not?"

"Well, I'm definitely not going back down there and then climbing up to Mt. Everest here again," she declares with certainty. "If you feel up to it, I'll just sit right here and wait."

He laughs. "Oh no, you're the one that wanted to be surprised."

She shrugs, grinning. "Then I guess we're watching it."

"Okay," he smirks and loads the disc into the DVD. He grabs the remote and walks back to the couch, kicking his shoes off on the way. He settles in a corner opposite her and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"Have you even seen this movie?" she suddenly asks.

His eyebrows lift as he looks at her. "Do you even know anyone who hasn't seen _Gone with the wind?_"

She laughs. "No, not really."

He nods. "Exactly. It's like a rite of passage, it somehow catches up with you at some point in your life." He frowns. "I actually have no idea when I saw it, and I only saw it once, but it's just one of those things that sticks with you."

She agrees silently and thinks about the movie; she suddenly squirms on the inside when the parallels between the story in the movie and their own story hit her over the head. Just like her, Scarlett had gone through several men in her life, completely disregarding the right one, not appreciating him when she had him, realizing that she loved him at the moment he finally gave up on her and walked out of her life. The thought chills her, and she wonders again if there is perhaps just a definite number of chances a person gets and if they miss the last one, it's all over and Rhett walks out the door never to come back again. Who could blame him, really? He'd done his best.

She looks at Jess, far away on the other side of the couch and suddenly she realizes just how far he really is. She remembers that look that sneaks into his eyes every time they slip from banter and scratch the surface of more serious issues, the look that crossed his face when she looked up at him after they'd danced, the uncertain, hesitant, doubtful, guarded look that's new and unfamiliar.

"Do you think she gets him back?" she suddenly asks, staring at him.

He looks at her, confused. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he chuckles.

She nods to the TV. "Scarlett. Do you think she gets Rhett back?"

He laughs. "Rory, we're five minutes into the movie. She hasn't even met him yet."

She sighs. "I know. But in the end, he leaves. Do you think she gets him back?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I'm not sure she even wants him."

"Yes, she does," Rory says quickly and blushes at the urgency in the words. He looks at her quizzically and she looks away, but he suddenly realizes they've entered that ambiguous realm where hidden meanings rule supreme, and he chooses his words carefully.

"I' not sure she knows what she wants," he says calmly, waiting for her to look at him again.

"Yes, she does," she repeats quietly, staring at the screen. "In that last scene, she knows what she wants probably for the first time in the whole movie."

"Well, it took her long enough to figure that out," he says quietly, shaking his head.

She looks up quickly. "Long enough, or too long?"

His eyes lock with hers. "Is there a difference?"

"Yeah," she replies after a moment. "There is. Long enough allows a chance to fix her mess. Too long doesn't."

The look lasts too long and his heart beats faster with every second, but he can't get the words out of his mouth. He looks away and reaches for his beer, suddenly angry at her for dragging out past ghosts.

"She screwed that guy over so many times that he'd have to be a real masochist to let himself go through that again," he says flatly and stares at the screen. It feels good to vent but the satisfaction is short-lived, regardless of the fact that there's a lot of truth in the words.

"She was scared," she says quietly, suddenly feeling nauseous.

He laughs. "Of what? Of him? That's ridiculous," he replies, shaking his head.

"No, not of him. Of herself," she says calmly. "Of herself with him, " she adds and he looks at her again.

"Why?" he asks after a moment, and turns away from the tv completely, facing her with a frown.

She shrugs and takes a breath. "Because with him, she's not in control. Of him, of herself, of anything. And control was important to her, she'd always had control over her life, and she didn't know how to let it go."

His heart pounds in his ears and breathing is a challenge in the face of that gaze she's giving him, the bare, honest and naked gaze that hides nothing and says too much. It's impossible to look away from and impossible to ignore; he loses himself in it completely and the words come out on their own. "Have you ever felt that?"

"Yeah," she breathes softly. "Yeah, I have." Her throat tightens but she wants to know. "Have you?"

He knew the question was coming, but didn't expect the word to roll off his tongue so easily. "Yeah."

They stare at each other from opposites ends of the couch and the truth lingers in the air between them, present but evasive, because even though they know they've said a lot, at the same time it's like they've said nothing new, nothing they hadn't really known before, the only difference being that it's the first time they've admitted it to each other, however vaguely and carefully.

Rory looks away first; she has to, because if she stares at him for another second, she'll either lunge across the couch and jump him, or start screaming; she knows it's not her place to lunge, and she would have to explain the screaming eventually, so looking away seems like the safest course of action. She looks at the tv and starts to breathe again, slowly, thinking it's enough for now, it's enough to know there are still feelings there and that she's not alone in this crazy whirlwind that threatens to knock her off her feet.

The chaos in Jess's head is significantly bigger, underlined by the new information that she's been scared of her feelings in the past; he'd never thought of that. He'd been over a million reasons why she might have behaved like she did, why she might have said this or done that, but it never occurred to him that she was just too scared to completely give in to what she was feeling. The ridiculous part is that it makes perfect sense, it fits with everything he knows about her, and he knows it's the truth. It's just so simple and obvious he can't believe he never thought of it.

"You never answered my question," her voice drifts over gently.

"Which one?" he asks with a smile.

"Do you think she gets him back?" she asks, looking at him.

He smirks and sips his beer. "She's Scarlett. I think she usually gets what she wants. I wouldn't worry about it too much," he says casually. "Now, are we going to watch this movie or not?"

Rory smiles and look at the tv again, sliding down the couch until she's lying on her side. She hugs her pillow and yawns, stretching her legs. "Is it okay if I tuck my feet under you?" she asks in a small voice.

"I can get you a blanket if you want," he offers with a smirk.

She shakes her head. "I'm not cold, my feet are," she smiles. "Do you mind?"

"No," he laughs, lifting up slightly so she can push her toes under his leg. "Knock yourself out."

She smiles and stretches her legs, hugging the pillow closer and settling her feet under his legs.

"You sure you don't want a blanket?" he asks again.

"Nope, I'm great now," she grins and looks at the tv. He chuckles and reaches for his bottle, suddenly feeling deliriously happy. It's probably the beer.

She's asleep long before Rhett kisses Scarlett for the first time, and Jess somehow finds her sleeping much more interesting than all the drama happening onscreen. There's a little smile on her face and her hair is a mess; the shirt is high up again and the pants low, and for half an hour he stares at her stomach and examines the freckles there in excruciating detail before he wonders if maybe she's cold. He gets up and goes over to the bed in search of a blanket, but as he picks one up, a better idea comes to mind and he puts a few books away and moves the bed covers. He walks back to the couch and takes a moment to develop a strategy; once it's in place, he bends over, scoops her in his arms and picks her up. She's asleep, but her hands wrap around his neck instinctively and he slowly starts walking to the bed.

"I hate that look in your eyes," she murmurs into his neck and he stops dead in his tracks, his heart beating wildly. Her eyes are still closed and he wonders if she's dreaming.

"What look is that?" he whispers into her hair and starts walking again.

"That leaving look," she murmurs again.

His chest tightens but he says nothing; he just puts her down on the bed gently and she rolls to her side immediately, pushing her face into his pillow. The smile returns and he smiles as well as he covers her up; he removes the clip and watches her hair spill over the pillow. He pushes away the few strands that land on her face; the yearning gets too hard to resist and he kisses the top of her head gently and quickly grabs a blanket before he literally escapes back into the living-room.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	10. The Fountainhead

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**10. The Fountainhead**

The couch is comfortable but he barely gets any sleep at all; the fact that she's just a few steps away, sleeping in his bed, proves too tempting for his imagination, and he tosses and turns, going back and forth betwwen indulging in all kinds of steamy scenarios and trying to evict them from his head. When he finally does fall asleep, dreams bring more of the same, but dreams he has no control over and when he opens his eyes in the morning, he still remembers them vividly. He looks at the clock, and it's early; he cranes his neck and peers through the bookshelf – she appears to be asleep but he wraps himself in a blanket nonetheless as he sneaks into the bathroom. The shower takes fifteen minutes and he emerges from it with a slightly better hold over himself and his hormones. Somewhat hungry and needing to work off some of the tension, he grabs his keys and goes on a bagel run. He makes a short detour into the drugstore but still returns to the apartment within ten minutes. She's still asleep; he makes coffee and sets out for the terrace, fighting the temptation to just sit at the desk and watch her sprawled in his bed. He manages to rise to the challenge and walks past the desk, but can't help turning at the door for a moment and making a mental image of the scene. After all, there's no guarantee he'll ever see it again.

Rory wakes up to the sun on her face; with her eyes still closed, she feels around for a pillow and when she finds one, she throws it over her head to block the light out. She feels lazy and warm and comfortable and completely unwilling to open her eyes or get up at all. She takes a deep breath and the scent that it brings suddenly wakes her up completely – it's cigarettes and aftershave and something indiscernible but familiar and tantalizing, and it makes her breath catch and her skin bristle. It 's his smell and she's in his bed, and her heart races as she pushes the pillow of her head and opens her eyes slowly, half-hoping she'll find him next to her and at the same time, half-scared of it too. She doesn't, and instead, she breathes the scent in again and runs her hand over the pillow next to her. It's cold and this saddens her. She thinks back to the night before; the memory unfolds slowly and she remembers lying on the couch, but doesn't recall the bed or how she ended up in it.

The apartment is quiet and she wonders where he is as she gets up and walks down into the living-room. The pillow and the blanket on the couch tell her where he slept, and warmth spreads inside her at the thought he let her have the bed, immediately followed by a pang of regret at the fact that she was in it alone. She wanders into the kitchen and finds fresh coffee there and her mood picks up a little; she finds a mug and fills it quickly. She looks around for him again, but doesn't see him until her eyes travel over to the window and she squints into the sun, barely discerning a silhouette in a chair outside. She takes her mug and walks over, finding a door she didn't notice before; she pushes it open and steps outside.

He's sitting in his favorite chair, coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other, with a brown paper bag in his lap. He smiles when he notices her and sets his mug on the floor, lifting the bag towards her. "Bagel?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "No. Chewing seems like a lot of hard work right now."

He smirks. "Have a seat," he says, nodding to the bench and the pillows next to him.

She walks around the chair and sits down, fighting a yawn.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, finding his coffee again.

"Great," she smiles lazily. "You have a very nice bed. I'm sure you missed it last night."

He laughs. "Yeah, a little."

"It's big enough for both of us," she says quietly and takes a sip of coffee before she looks at him and smiles. "I wouldn't have kicked you out."

His heart skips a beat and his blood surges faster, but he hides it well. "Yeah, I suppose not, seeing as you were unconscious and all," he smirks at her.

"Yeah, I was actually wondering how I ended up there, unconscious and all. Can you shed some light on that?" she asks innocently.

The smirk widens and he shakes his head. "It was amazing. A flock of birds flew in and carried you over there. It was like a scene from Snow-white or something."

She smiles. "Birds, huh? And I hoped there was a prince involved," she says regretfully. "Or I could have just been sleepwalking again."

"More like sleep-talking, actually," he chuckles but looks at her carefully, trying to figure out if she remembers the mumbling at all.

The surprise on her face is genuine. "I talked?"

He smiles. "It was more of a slightly incoherent mumble," he explains.

"What did I say?"

She looks alarmed and he just shrugs. "Nothing important."

"I didn't mention Al Gore, did I?" she asks apprehensively.

He bursts out laughing. "Al Gore? That's who you dream about?" He shakes his head. "You're hilarious. I'd give anything to crawl inside your head for a day. Al Gore?"

"It's not funny," she frowns but can't help a smile. "I saw that documentary of his on global warming a few months ago. It gave me nightmares for weeks."

He's still laughing and she kicks him. "And as far as crawling into my head goes, you're nowhere near qualified to deal with the mess in there, so be grateful you don't have to," she adds, laughing, and returns to her coffee.

"Al Gore…" he repeats incredulously.

"Drop it, right now," she warns, "before I revisit the plants."

He's still chuckling but he doesn't mention Gore again, he just watches her sip her coffee and gaze out at the city. Her hair is tousled and there are sleep wrinkles on her face, and the whole she-just-crawled-out-of-bed look just makes him want to take her right back to said bed and do things that will make her flush and whimper and scream. His mind runs away from him completely and he wonders what kinds of sounds she makes and what her face looks like in those moments; the daydream gets out of hand quickly and his blood surges in a very definite direction. He snaps out of it violently at the feeling and quickly looks for a mental equivalent of a cold shower. For some unknown reason, Dean comes to mind and it works perfectly, although he hates being grateful to the guy for anything. He settles down and takes a huge gulp of coffee, wondering if he'd be less crazed now if he had actually slept with her at some point. Probably not. He'd kissed her before and that somehow doesn't make the desire to do it again any lesser. He might be less crazed if there had been any sex in the last few months; there hasn't, and this self-imposed abstinence coupled with her reappearance is clearly beginning to take its toll.

"Wow, you should see your face right now," she laughs suddenly. "You look like Superman faced with kryptonite… and now I want to crawl inside your head," she adds playfully. "I don't even need a whole day in there, I'd make do with just a few minutes."

The kryptonite reference is dead-on, but he shakes it off and hides behind the smirk. "You'd run away screaming, trust me," he warns and quickly moves on into safer territory. "So, you want to go check out that Book Market you missed last weekend?"

She smiles. "Sure, that'd be great. When?"

"After you're done with that," he points to her coffee.

"Right now?" she asks, surprised.

"There's no time like the present," he declares with conviction.

She laughs. "Toilet paper or fortune cookie?"

"I don't know, I don't keep track," he smirks. "What's wrong with right now?"

She shrugs and smiles. "Nothing, really, except the fact I slept in these clothes and it would be like going out into the world in my pajamas."

He laughs. "You have a jacket and even if you didn't, trust me, no one would care if you did wear pajamas."

She frowns. "Okay, but I want a shower and I need to brush my teeth. That's non-negotiable," she says with determination.

The smirk is back and he digs inside his jacket that's sitting on the bench next to her; after a moment, he produces a toothbrush and hands it to her.

She takes it, bewildered. "You always have a fresh toothbrush in your jacket?"

He laughs. "No. Why on earth would I do that?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, to be prepared?"

"Prepared for what? A surprise caries attack?" he laughs again.

"No," she says pointedly. "I was thinking more along the lines of when you go out, hoping you'll get lucky." She waves the toothbrush in front of his face. "This thing can come in handy the morning after." She hates the very idea and kicks herself mentally for voicing it at all.

"I don't plan that far ahead, and I rarely stick around for the morning after," he says simply and watches the shadow retreat from her face. He's glad to see it go but also happy that it appeared in the first place.

There's a moment of silence as she debates whether or not to ask the question that runs around her head. The answer might hurt and that scares her; there might not even be an answer and somehow, that scares her even more, but in a weird slightly masochistic way, she wants to know.

"How come?" she finally asks, bracing herself. "How come you don't stick around?"

The answer comes, and it comes right away, and he looks her straight in the eyes when he delivers it. "Because it never means anything."

She swallows, unsure what to think. "Then what's the point?" she asks in a small voice.

"You mean, aside from the obvious?" He shrugs. "There isn't one. It's pretty much like scratching an itch."

"Wow, that's…cold," she says quietly.

He looks away from her and lights another cigarette. "Truth usually is," he says simply.

She plays with the toothbrush, suddenly sorry she asked, less because of what she learned and more because of the dark expression that settles on his face as he looks at the city that wakes up in front of them. The darkness tells her not to push the issue, and she doesn't want to dig deeper anyway, sensing she won't like what she finds and afraid it will somehow lead back to her and another one of those mistakes she faced a week ago.

"So, what do I do with this toothbrush?" she asks quietly, with a little smile.

He raises his eyebrows. "You graduated Yale and you need instructions for that?", he chuckles. "Wow, those Ivy League schools are clearly not everything they're cracked up to be."

She rolls her eyes. "Funny. What I meant was, what do I do with it after I brush my teeth?"

He understands the question now and he smirks. "I don't know, you tackle that one."

"Well, I already have one at home," she says casually.

The smirk is still there. "Maybe have that one with you in your bag then. Might come in handy when you eat at work or something," he suggests casually.

She shakes her head. "I have one at work too," she points out.

"Okay, I guess you'll just have to leave it here than," he shrugs, chuckling slightly.

She smiles. "I'll just be a few minutes," she promises as she gets up and starts for the door.

"There's towels in the cupboard," he calls after her, smiling to himself; he puts the cigarette out and eats another bagel before he gets up and takes the mug into the kitchen. The dishes from last night are piled next to the sink and he decides to wash them. He turns the faucet to hot, and within seconds, he hears her screeching from the bathroom; he turns the water off quickly, suddenly realizing he just gave her a cold shower.

"Sorry!" he yells towards the bathroom, but can't help laughing.

"Yeah, I bet you are," she yells back and he laughs harder.

He grabs a book and settles on the couch. Rory emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later; the sleep wrinkles are gone and somehow, he misses them. Her eyes are bright and she's holding her hair up on top of her head.

"Thanks for that," she says, nodding to the bathroom. "Did wonders for my circulation."

"I'm sorry," he laughs. "I totally forgot about that little hot water quirk. There's not enough pressure to keep both faucets going."

"Yes, I'll make a mental note of that for when you're in there," she quips, looking around the room. "I can't find my hair thingy," she complains as she moves the pillows on the couch.

"It's over there, next to the bed," he says with a smirk.

She smiles. "Very thoughtful, those birds," she says as she walks up the stairs. "Took off my hair-clip out and everything." She disappears behind the shelf. "They might have as well taken my clothes off, at least I wouldn't be going out all wrinkled today," she challenges with a smirk of her own when she reappears.

He swallows against the image that invades his head. "I'll make sure to tell them that next time," he mutters quietly and keeps his eyes firmly planted in the book as he wills the picture away.

She laughs and finds her boots; she pulls them on as he gets up from the couch and hands her jacket before he grabs his own. "You ready?" he asks; she nods, and he opens the door. On their way down, she digs through her bag in search of her sunglasses; they prove elusive and as they step out into the street, she hands him a notebook, her wallet and a book before she finally finds them.

"Do you have lunch in there too?" he smirks as he hands her things back one by one.

"Hey, I need all of this stuff, okay?" she says defensively.

"I'm sure you do, but there's probably enough in there to get you through a nuclear meltdown," he smirks.

She rolls her eyes. "You're a guy and therefore unqualified to understand or discuss the subject of women's bags," she says simply and looks around. "How far is this Book Market?"

"Around that corner, and down that street," he points ahead of them.

"Everything is around a corner from your building," she says. "I'm jealous."

He laughs. "You should be. I live in the best part of this whole city."

She spots a pastry shop when they turn the corner he mentioned and stops for a danish; she finishes it by the time they reach the end of the street and a square packed with carts and makeshift shelves full of books. She stops and tries to take it all in, and he smiles at the way her mouth drops open.

"Oh my God, we'll be here all day," she squeals enthusiastically and takes a blind step into the street; he grabs her hand and pulls her back as a car drives by, then pulls her into a run before another one approaches. They stop as they reach the square and he turns towards her, immediately realizing something's wrong; her hands are crossed on her chest and she's rooted to the spot.

"What is it?" he frowns, checking out her face; it's hard to read behind the sunglasses and he takes them off her face. "Rory?"

"It's nothing," she shakes her head, blushing.

He smirks. "It's clearly not nothing, because a very big something is written all over your face."

She cringes. "We have to go back," she says in a breath.

His frowns again. "Back where?"

"Back to your place," she says quickly.

"Why?" he asks, confused.

She rolls her eyes. "I forgot something."

"What?"

She blushes again. "Just… something."

He smirks, crossing his hands on his chest and leans closer to her. "What, did you forget to put on underwear or something?" he asks in a hushed tone, grinning widely.

"No, not my underwear," she whines, closing her eyes. "My bra."

He was joking and what she says catches him completely off guard and it takes a moment to process the information, but even though his mind threatens to go on another vivid imagery binge, he manages to grasp that this is upsetting her and he clears his head quickly.

"We can go back if you want," he says gently. "But can I just point out a few things first?"

She looks at him and appreciates that he's choosing not to mock her about this, and she slowly nods her head.

"Okay," he smiles. "First of all, just relax – it's not like you're naked, even if you might feel like you are. Second, you're wearing a jacket, and bra or not, you won't be taking it off because we're outside. Third, no one can tell what you are or aren't missing under that jacket just by looking at you. Fourth, we can easily avoid any situations where you would have to take the jacket off, and just return to my place once we're done here. " He shrugs, still smiling. "That's it. But if you still want to, we can go back right now."

She relaxes a little and smiles; her hands drop from her chest and she pushes them into her pockets, looking at her feet. "You're right, I guess. It's not such a big deal," she says in a small voice. "I just… panicked," she laughs and looks at him again.

He smirks at her. "So, you want to go and look at some books?"

"Yeah," she nods, smiling. "That'd be great."

She starts walking towards the carts and he follows, thinking of the bra that hangs somewhere in his bathroom, amazed he didn't notice she wasn't wearing one when she came out of it. He must really be losing it.

They reach the carts and soon they're both lost in piles of books, occasionally looking up to smile at each other or craning their necks in an effort not to lose one another in the crowd. At one point, fifteen minutes pass before he sees her again, and he walks over to her slowly.

"Hey," he says and she looks up from a battered copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five. _"Do you have your phone with you? Just in case I lose you between all these pages."

"Yeah, I've got it. I thought of that a minute ago too," she says with a smile.

"Okay, then we're good," he smirks and wanders off to the next cart. He checks out the titles and moves on, doing the same thing but somehow his heart is not really in it today, his mind is elsewhere and it revolves around her exclusively. She's a pure joy to have around, being with her is easy and natural and he never feels cramped or crowded by her like he sometimes feels with other people. He never has to look for things to talk about with her and she can make him laugh like no one else can, but she can also break him in pieces more thoroughly than even he ever could, and he's very good at self destruction.

He finds a bench and sits down, getting ready again to try and reconcile these two opposing forces that crash inside him, each pulling in the opposite direction, even though he knows in advance he'll end up right where he started. He also knows he'll just keep ending up in the same place until he really accepts that any attempt at anything with her again necessarily comes with the a possibility he might get clobbered all over again too. Somehow, he just can't bring himself to accept that yet.

"Jess!"

It sounds like her and he cranes his neck, looking around. There's too many people and he can't figure out where her voice is coming from.

"Jess!"

Her voice is louder this time and sounds urgent; he gets up and stands on the bench, scanning the crowd, and he sees her head among twenty others, looking around for him.

"Rory!" he yells and she turns around, spotting him. He steps down from the bench and she runs to him, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Oh…my …God," she pants, breathing heavily. "There's a guy… back there… Jess, he's got… and he has no idea… I mean, really… no idea…"

"Okay, this is going nowhere," he smirks and takes her hands of his shoulders, but keeps them in his. "Breathe," he warns.

"Breathe? I can't breathe!" she yells in frustration.

"You're about to hyper-ventilate," he points out with his eyebrows raised.

"I'm about… to have a heart… attack," she pants out and takes a breath, then another one.

He smirks. "Okay, now talk. The guy has what?"

Her eyes light up and nearly pop out of her head, and she squeezes his hands so tightly it shocks him there's so much strength in something so small. "_The fountainhead_," she blurts out, grinning widely.

He frowns. "Okay, not wanting to burst your bubble, but I'm pretty sure a lot of guys here have –"

"The first edition," she cuts him off, squealing. "He's got the first edition, Jess!"

The panting and the running and the squealing make sense now, and he smiles. "Well, did you get it?"

She shakes her head. "No, I couldn't, I've been running around looking for an ATM for the last twenty minutes, or a bank, or a liquor store to rob or something, but I can't find any, not one, anywhere, and –"

He laughs. "Okay, okay, take a breath, I've got money," he says calmly. "Let's go find this guy."

She turns around and pulls him after her as she navigates between the carts and unceremoniously elbows people out of the way. She stops after five minutes, a few steps away from their destination and leans towards him, whispering conspirationally. "That's the one."

"Okay, let's go get the book then," he whispers back, trying hard not to laugh at the secrecy. He pulls her towards the cart and she grabs the book instantly. "How much?" she asks breathlessly and looks at the vendor expectantly. He glances at the book and shakes his head. "Sorry, that one is already on hold for someone."

Her face sinks and she looks at the book. "On hold? No, come on, it can't be on hold," she says desperately.

The guy shrugs. "Well, it is, I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "You have no idea how much I love this book. Please, please, let me have it," she says imploringly, holding the book to her chest.

"Hey, I'm sure there must be other copies around the market," the vendor says helpfully. "Look around, I'm sure you'll find one."

"No, but this one is special," she argues passionately.

The guy looks surprised. "Why? What's so special about this one?"

She gapes at him incredulously. "What? It's the –"

Jess suddenly figures out this guy has no idea what he's got on his hands and how much it's worth, and he steps on Rory's foot quickly and cuts her off.

"It's special to her because she used to have one just like it when she was little," he says quickly and rolls his eyes. "Women," he adds quietly, rolling his eyes.

The guy gives him an understanding look and goes back to Rory again. "Sorry, it's still on hold," he says flatly. She's still holding on to the book and he raises his eyebrows at her. "Can I have it back?"

She grips the book tighter and for a brief second, actually contemplates running for it, but Jess seems to sense this crazy impulse and grabs the back of her jacket. "Give the book back, Rory," he mumbles into her ear and she hates him for being so reasonable. She reluctantly hands the book over and turns away from the cart, frustrated to tears. Jess steers her further away, and she rounds on him as soon as their out of earshot.

"Why didn't you let me tell him it was the first edition? Whoever he's holding it for is probably paying him peanuts for it, and this guy obviously has no idea this book is worth a small fortune!"

He takes a breath. "Okay, first of all, stop yelling. Second, If you told him that, he would have asked for a small fortune, and we don't have a small fortune. Third, you're much too crazed about this book to either think clearly or act normally, so just go back to that bench you just dragged me here from and I'll go talk to him again."

She looks ashamed and she smiles apologetically. "You will? Can I just stay here and watch?"

He shakes his head. "No, you can't," he smiles. "You're a disaster waiting to happen. Now go."

"I won't move an inch from this spot, I promise," she tries again and he laughs.

"Neither will I, not until you're out of my sight," he shrugs, smiling. She throws him a dirty look but walks away anyway, certain he really won't move until she does what he says. She reaches the bench quickly and spends the longest ten minutes of her life pacing up and down in front of it, glancing at the crowd and waiting for him to appear. He finally does, and when he lifts the book up, something breaks inside her because it just feels too perfect that he should get this for her and smile like that.

He sees her face light up as he approaches, then watches her as she laughs and runs towards him. She takes the book from him but doesn't look at it at all; instead, she throws her arms around him and kisses him, laughing against his lips. For a moment, he does nothing – the kiss is not really a kiss, it's more an outburst of pure and unbounded joy, spontaneous and Rory-like, and it's another precious thing about her, this ability to show happiness without restraint. It only lasts a moment but a moment is enough to defeat him, and as he feels her pulling away, he grips her tightly and claims her mouth completely. She's not laughing anymore and her lips part against his immediately; her heart jumps into her throat and pounds in her ears as she feels his hands sneak under her jacket and travel up her back, and she drops her beloved book on the ground unceremoniously and wraps her fingers in his hair, tilting his head to get a better angle, completely indifferent to the fact that there are people around. If the world fell apart around them, she wouldn't even notice.

Her skin is soft and smooth and he explores the texture slowly, up and down her back; a small whimper escapes her when he moves his hands down her side and she clings to him harder. It's like adding gasoline to the fire, this little move she makes, and he pulls her closer and stumbles around, looking for some sort of leverage. The tree behind the bench comes in handy and he pushes her against it blindly. His hands travel to her face, while hers move down to the waistband of his jeans where she hooks her fingers and pulls him closer. His breath catches and she whimpers a little louder this time, gripping him tighter and holding him in place firmly. He opens his eyes and looks at her, and nothing he ever imagined comes anywhere close to what he's seeing now, and nothing he felt over the last year measures up to what he's feeling now, nothing since that last time she kissed him like this. The memory of that night suddenly comes alive again, closely followed by memories of months that came after it and everything else fades in the face of panic that it's all just too much, it's too big of a gamble and in this particular game the dice had never rolled his way. His heart beating wildly, he pulls back from her slowly and pushes his hands into his pockets as he tries to clear his head. It refuses to clear, and he knows it's a lost cause as long as she's so close; he takes another step back and runs his hands through his hair.

She looks at him, out of breath and flushed, but suddenly scared, and her heart sinks as she reads his face. "There it is," she says regretfully. "That look I hate."

"I have to go," he says quietly, looking away from her.

"Go? Go where? What are you talking about?" she asks incredulously.

He shakes his head. "I can't do this."

"Do what? It was just a kiss, Jess," she says softly. He takes another step back and she follows, frowning. "Will you look at me?"

He lifts his eyes and the look is still there, only now it shows naked fear. "I can't do this again," he repeats and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm me and you're you, and we're bound to screw it up somehow, and I can't deal with another aftermath of that."

She stares at him, speechless, hurt, scared, but not entirely surprised, and she suddenly realizes that on some level, she knew this was coming. She shakes her head but words betray her; he just shrugs his shoulders again and walks away.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	11. Lost and Found

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

**LadyOfVictoryRising**, I aplogize for shamelessly ripping of a line you used in one of your reviews for Books and Music - the temptation was just too much and I couldn't help myself ;P.

I fell in love with that line the moment I read it, it stayed in my head and it just fit perfectly here. So, to give credit where credit is due: ..._trying to describe all the fire and glory of the universe with the vocabulary of a three-year old... _is all you :D !

* * *

**11. Lost And Found**

Rory returns home in a daze, and it stays with her for hours as she sits on the couch and stares into space. She feels weirdly disconnected from herself, as if everything that's happened that morning has actually happened to someone else, and she had just watched it all unfold like she would have watched a sad movie or a tragic play – sympathetic, but removed; involved, but from a safe distance. On an intellectual level, she can understand it all – his uncertainty and his hesitation; the reasons behind them are valid and strong and obvious, and she really can't blame him for acting the way he did – not on any level of reason anyway. Emotionally, however, she can't even begin to accept any of it, and hence the daze and the disconnection, because for the moment she feels safer outside herself, away from the impending sense of loss and misery that lurk inside her, ready to pounce and take her over as soon as reality settles in.

It settles in as soon as night creeps into her apartment, and she finds herself sitting in the dark and watching the lights come one in the building across the street. It comes covertly, in the shape of a fleeting, random memory of the wonderful view from his window and the glittering city lights sprawled in front of it; it hits hard and brutal when she thinks she may never see that view again. Her insides turn over and she suddenly feels dizzy with fright that this is it, this is as far as it goes and that he really walked away with the intention to just keep walking forever and never turn back again. The thought drains every breath from her chest and it makes her blood run cold; her heart stops for a moment and she suddenly can't sit still anymore. She paces around the room a few times before she walks to the fridge and digs out a huge can of ice-cream from the freezer; by the time she finds the spoon, the sudden rush fades and she settles into a chair and starts on the ice-cream. It doesn't help, and she suddenly knows nothing will; in a moment, her throat tightens and the ice-cream gets hard to swallow as she feels tears coming on. She pushes the can away and drops the spoon on the table, fighting the urge to cry.

It's barely been a week of him and here she is already, with her throat constricted and her insides hollow and squirming; she's been here before, but never this frozen and nearly paralyzed with fear that this time, the feeling is forever. On all those previous occasions, she somehow knew that if she reached out to him, he'd be there. Not this time; not anymore, not after that look that's been sneaking around his eyes for days before it finally showed painfully clearly this morning and allowed no sugar-coating or misinterpretation. It was like she had been catching vague glimpses of a scale tipping this way and that all week long, before it finally tipped in the very direction she didn't want it to go, and ironically, it was the most glorious moment of all that somehow made it tip that way. It was a sick joke of fate, but she can't let herself think about that now, she can't let herself think about that kiss, of the way he tasted and felt against her, or about the trail of fire his hands left on her. She can't think about it without falling apart, yet everything in her head revolves around him right now anyway and so she chooses to think about the happier moments, but they are all colored a different hue now, something melancholic and sepia-like, something that belongs in an old album that celebrates past memories but holds no future at all. It hurts, and as she recognizes the pain, it reminds her of something he mentioned and she opens up her laptop and does a search that she knows will probably only makes things worse, although she doubts anything really could. She finds what she's looking for quickly, and turns the volume up before she hits the play button. A haunting voice fills the room and as she listens, it washes over her smoothly with its sadness; once it's done, she replays it over and over again, wondering when he listened to it and what it meant to him, wondering if it had anything to do with her…_Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear; you are someone else, I am still right here... _

It quickly overwhelms her, the sadness within the song and the sadness within herself, and she feels like she's going to drown in it, and suddenly she feels too alone in it all, she feels more alone than ever, and the loneliness feels alive somehow in the darkness and she can't take it anymore. She needs to hear someone talk, she needs to hear something besides the thoughts in her head, something familiar and comforting and unthreatening and most importantly, unrelated to this pain that's slowly beginning to swallow her. She needs a friend and she grabs the phone and dials blindly; it rings and she waits with baited breath, hoping Lane is home.

She is; her hello is light-hearted and cheerful, but when Rory hears it, something unexpected happens – instead of relief or joy she had hoped for, her throat closes; she suddenly can't hold the tears back anymore and she sobs into the phone miserably.

"Rory?" Lane's voice quickly turns to panic. "Rory? Are you all right?"

Rory closes her eyes and sinks into the sofa, gripping the phone tighter. "Yeah," she breathes between sobs. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," Lane says urgently, "you sound distinctly non-fine. You sound horrible and you're scaring me," she adds quickly.

"Sorry… No, really, I'm fine," Rory explains between breaths, then shakes her head. "Actually, I'm not fine, but nothing's happened. Well, something happened, but it's nothing to be scared over, or even worried over, I'm just…"

"You're crying, Rory. You're crying long distance," Lane says anxiously. "I reserve the right to be both worried and scared until you tell me exactly why that is."

Rory tries to control both the sobs and the tears, but it doesn't work. "Lane, I screwed up so badly," she weeps into the phone softly.

"Oh thank God," Lane exhales, then quickly corrects herself. "Sorry if that sounded patronizing, but you scared the crap out of me, I had images of bodily harm flashing through my head…"

"No, no bodily harm," Rory whimpers. "Although that would be a picnic right now."

"Wow, that doesn't sound good," Lane replies softly. "Okay, I've got the mood music on and Zach's out with the kids so you're timing is perfect. I'm all yours," she says gently.

Rory smiles. "How are the boys, anyway? They must be pretty big by now."

"They're fine," Lane dismisses the question quickly. "You're clearly not, so forget about them for now and let's hear about you" she adds sternly.

Rory closes her eyes. "You may want to sit down, this might take a while. A lot of it will definitely come as a shock, so you know... brace yourself."

"I'm not going anywhere," Lane says quietly. "Just take a breath and let's hear it."

It's unbelievably easy once Rory gets started and the words roll over one another for almost an hour as she talks to Lane about him like she's never talked about him to anyone, honestly and without holding back. She talks about meeting him when he first came to Starts Hollow; she talks about her feelings for him then, how they changed her and how different they were from anything she ever felt for anyone. She tells Lane how every time he left, she felt like there was a part of her missing, a giant part she had tried to replace many times by numerous methods, all ultimately pointless and stupid, none effective for long. She talks about when he appeared at her grandparents' and the things he said, and how they made her realize how much of a mess she's made of her life, but she also admits seeing him again stirred things within her she had tried hard to ignore through Logan but never really managed to. She hesitates briefly and cries again when she recounts her Truncheon visit, and tries her best to explain how much everything she felt then scared her because the feelings came fierce and raging like they always did with him, and she ran from them and from him. She'd been running from those feelings ever since, until the moment she ran straight back into them at that supermarket a week ago. She stops crying and even manages a smile as she talks about the past week, but the smile fades quickly as she describes that difference in his eyes, and her skin bristles again when she mentions the kiss; the tears return quietly when she gets to the part when he walked away from her, and the hurt that's been growing ever since and that she's sure is here to stay.

"How could I have not known about any of this?" Lane asks softly once Rory's voice trails off and just soft sobs come over the line again.

"How could you have known?" Rory says quietly. "I didn't know; I tried very hard not to know anything about it."

"I'm so sorry, Rory," Lane says gently. "I had no idea you were so hung up on him. I mean, I knew back then there was something about you two, you always had that mind-melt thing going, and there was something different in your face when you were around him, but I had no idea all of that stuff was still there."

Rory sighs. "It doesn't really matter anymore anyway, does it?" she adds sadly.

There's a moment of contemplative silence. "I don't know if that's true," Lane says cautiously. "He did kiss you."

Rory shrugs. "Yeah, but he all but ran away screaming a minute later."

"Still, " Lane says softly, "It sounds like it was a pretty serious kiss."

"Oh my God, Lane, there are no words to describe that kiss," Rory breathes. "It would be like trying to describe all the fire and glory of the universe with the vocabulary of a three-year old."

"Exactly," Lane smiles. "I'm pretty sure he felt that way too."

"Right," Rory says sarcastically. "Because people usually tend to run like hell from great kisses."

"You did it as a rule, remember?" Lane quips flatly. "You just said you made a habit of running away from your feelings for him. How do you know he's not doing the same?"

"I don't," Rory admits after a minute. "It just seems unlikely. And even if it is true, he seems very determined to run nonetheless."

"So, just don't let him," Lane says simply.

Rory can't help a chuckle. "What exactly are you suggesting, that I chase him and pin him down and have my way with him?"

"No, not exactly," Lane chuckles back. "Although, on a side note, it seems like you guys really should at the very least have your way with each other. All this unresolved tension just isn't healthy, and if that kiss alone made you feel like it did, then just think what s-"

"Don't go there, Lane," Rory cuts her off quickly. "Just… don't go there."

"Right, sorry," Lane says apologetically. "Okay, what I meant to say is - if he walked away from you just to spare himself from getting hurt again – which seems reasonable enough after what you put him through, although Jess being reasonable is a concept I find extremely difficult to grasp because it was never his forte – I mean, we are talking about the guy who wanted you to run away with him at one point –"

"Lane, focus" Rory warns.

Lane laughs. "Yeah, sorry. Anyway, if he did it not to get hurt, then there are still feelings there, and it will be much easier for him to ignore them if you let him have the space and time to do it in. Don't let him," she repeats again. "I'm not saying you should pitch a tent outside his apartment door, I'm just saying, you know – don't stop calling, go over there and get your bra, show up and demand an explanation for what happened this morning, or whatever else you can think of." She pauses a moment, thinking. "Maybe even go and apologize for Truncheon, try and explain why you did what you did… no, actually, don't go digging through that yet, maybe it would be too much too soon. God only knows how he lived that encounter down and maybe it's not such a good idea to remind him of it."

"Yeah, probably not," Rory says sadly and wipes the tears of her face, sighing deeply. "Okay, I think I might be ready to mute Johnny Cash," she adds with a small chuckle.

"Ah, yes," Lane says solemnly. "It takes a truly broken heart to appreciate country music. I figured that out when Dave left."

"Well, it's not really country, I've been playing _Hurt_ over and over again for hours," Rory admits as she shuts her laptop.

"_Hurt?_ Oh my God, it's worse than I thought… there's so much pain in that song that it could depress The Brady Bunch," Lane says breathlessly. "No, no, no, shut that off and put on some National, preferably _High violet_ – it's just gloomy enough to work well with this desperation you have going, yet there's enough rhythm to keep you from slipping into total lethargy. Oh, and while you're at it, if you figure out the meaning behind _Conversation 16_, I'd love to hear it," she adds with a chuckle.

Rory smiles. "You'll be the first to know," she promises. She closes her eyes and pauses for a second. "Thanks, Lane. I'm sorry I freaked you out at the beginning there, but this breakdown thing sort of just happened when I heard you say hello. I really didn't plan on having this particular conversation."

"Well, thank heavens for the breakdown then, because this particular conversation was long overdue," Lane chuckles slightly.

Rory shakes her head. "I know. I'm sorry about that too," she says quietly.

"Hey, the fact that you can tell me things doesn't mean that you have to, just as long as you know that you can," Lane quips lightly.

"Yeah, I know," Rory smiles. There's a sound of a door closing and a cacophony of voices and laughter comes from Lane's end of the line.

"Oh, the menaces are back, I have to go, " Lane says regretfully. "Listen, Rory – Jess is one of those characters that do nothing half way. If he was in love with you before, he probably still is, whether he chooses to show it or not."

"You didn't see the look on his face, Lane," Rory says sadly.

"No, but he didn't kiss me either," Lane points out simply. "I'd concentrate on that part if I were you."

Rory smiles. "Thanks, Lane," she says quietly. "Now go and kiss the boys for me."

"Okay, I will" Lane chuckles. "Don't forget about _Conversation 16,"_ she repeats in a rush and the line disconnects.

Rory puts the phone away and slumps back into the sofa, suddenly feeling considerably less lost and desperate and eternally grateful to Lane for making that happen. She doesn't quite dare believe the he's still in love with her, but she does dare hope that there is something there, however small it may be, because kisses like the one this morning don't just happen randomly, not with such amazing sets of sensations behind them. She had run from them before, and maybe Lane's right – maybe he's running from them now. If he is, she can't just let him do it without a fight, not now when she finally realized how much she wants to keep him and how wrong she was to ever let him out of her life all those times before.

She gets up with new found determination and walks over to her cds; she digs through them for a few minutes and when she finds the one Lane mentioned, she loads it into her stereo and skips to the right track; she listens to the song with a smile. _Tricky, that one_, she thinks as she listens to the lyrics, frowning, and she replays it again once it's done, listening more closely; she still can't really make heads or tails of it in the sense of meaning, but a few lines strike her every time_… __I was less than amazing, do not know what all the troubles are for; fall asleep in your branches, you're the only thing I ever want anymore..._

Her heart suddenly races and she reaches for her phone and flips it open; she finds his name on the list and looks at it for a long time, but every time she gets ready to push the call button, something holds her back. _Too soon_, a voice inside her head warns and she takes a breath and closes the phone.

She pushes the shuffle button on the stereo and leans against the wall, sliding to the floor slowly. _…__it's only my half of heart alone on the water, cover me in rag and bone, sympathy... 'cos I don't wanna get over you...I don't wanna get over you..._

She decides to give it two days.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	12. Aftermath

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**12. Aftermath**

After he leaves her at the Book Market, he roams the streets for hours, aimlessly, without any sense of purpose or direction; he just walks blindly, reliving that kiss over and over again, remembering every feeling it invoked, trying to memorize the fragrance and flavor of her and the smoothness of her skin before the experience of it drifts away from him. He wants to remember it all, he wants to remember this kiss forever because there would be no others, and as hard as it was to walk away from her, he knows it was easier than it would be to watch her walk away from him, eventually, again. It was easier than going through months of staring at the walls and getting drunk and sleeping around and who knows what other new method of self-destruction he would think of in another desperate attempt to get over her. No, this is better, it's better to just walk away before he gets completely tangled in her again, before he gets drawn in to deep; it's better to do it now and preserve some self-respect and sanity.

When he remembers the world again, he finds himself on the shore; the Great South Wall stretches into Dublin Bay in front of him, with the lighthouse looming at the end. He doesn't really care where he walks, so he sets off towards it slowly. His eyes drift over the water around him, and he suddenly wonders where she is, but immediatelly mentally kicks himself for caring. He shouldn't care where she is or what she does, he'd just made it none of his business a couple of hours ago, but as the thought enters his head, it comes with a sharp sting of regret that bites at his heart viciously. It suddenly becomes real, this decision he made, the decision not to have her in his life at all, and an icy chill runs down his spine as the sheer finality of it washes over him.

It's only been a week, and this ache inside him is bound to fade; it has to, a mere week can't have been enough time to undo all those months he spent putting every feeling he had for her behind him. It was just a bump in the road, this week, a crazy detour, a freak coincendence that brought her back into his life, and he really is much better off without her in it, without all the chaos that she creates inside him, without the longing and yearning and the craving to touch her, without that kiss... He can do without any of it, he's done it for months and he was fine. He'd be fine again, in a while. He'd be a lot better than he would have been if he allowed this thing with her to grow and take hold of him again, just to have it blow up in his face eventually, like it did before, like it would have done again, without a doubt.

Except maybe he's wrong. Maybe he's fundamentally wrong about it all. Maybe he's just made a mistake of epic proportions. Maybe he didn't just walk away from her this morning, maybe he walked away from a chance at happiness. Maybe this time, they would have done it right and there would be no disaster at the end of the day. Maybe there would be no end of the day at all.

He reaches the lighthouse and sits on the rocks that surround it, staring at the water, colored in sunset hues of gold and orange. He hates this optimistic little voice inside his head, he hates that it's so quick to disregard all logic and reason, always aiming straight for his heart with it seductive little hints, but most of all, he hates it when he realizes how much he wants to believe it's actually right. The thought makes his blood run cold and his heart climbs into his throat when he becomes aware of this, suddenly realizing she's crawled much deeper under his skin than he thought possible in such a short time frame. Restless and agitated, he gets up quickly and turns back to the city, walking faster, as if distancing himself from this spot will help leave the thoughts of her behind. It doesn't, and as he watches the citylights come on in the distance, her face travels towards them with him, firmly imprinted in his brain, with that bright look and smile she gave him this morning.

Within a few steps, he resents himself for letting it go that far, for letting her reach so deep, for feeling so hollow inside and for missing her already. It's a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that in just a week, she can undo everything he struggled for months to create. It was like a house of cards, this inner peace he built, a fragile construction put together with caution and careful strategy, and just one kiss was enough for it to crumble down in pieces.

He's back in the city before he knows it, and when he realizes he's heading in a general direction of home, he quickly takes a few turns and wanders further away. He doesn't want to return to the apartment and face last night, the dishes in the sink, the movie they watched or the bed she slept in. He feels safer out here, with people around, with the noise and the crowd; after a few blocks, he comes across a pub and walks inside with determination. He sits at the bar, orders a beer and stares into the glass, then he stares into another one and one more after that until he finds the bottom of every one of them. It's a familiar scenario, he thinks bitterly, but orders another glass anyway, thinking what happens next, trying to figure how to pick up where he left off before he ran into her in that supermarket.

Getting her out of his head seems like a logical first step, and right on some carmic cue, a girl comes over and sits next to him. She smiles and says something inconsequential, maybe her name, and asks something irrelevant, like what he's doing here. He knows this dance and does it well; he goes through the motions smoothly and says all the right things, all the meaningless, unimportant, hollow and unsubstantial lines he's delivered so many times before. There's a purpose behind it all, and he just wants to forget, and he stupidly thinks this might be the way to do it, even if only for a while. He discovers quickly just how impossible that is, he discovers it when he kisses this random girl after walking her home a few hours later; the kiss makes him feel nothing, there is no reaction within him at all, no rush and no excitement of any kind, nothing but self-loathing. It gets worse when Rory's face flashes in his head with that sweet expression of pure abandon he saw in the morning, and it comes while his lips are still attached to the nameless girl in his arms, and he jerks away instantly, frozen and disgusted with himself. He turns around and walks away without a word, crazed and mortified, cursing under his breath as he stumbles home wondering why he feels like he's cheated on Rory somehow. It's ridiculous, she's not his to cheat on, and he wonders in a panic if this will now become a regular occurance, this flash of her face when he touches someone else.

He crashes on the sofa and hates her passionately, hates that she is so present and so important, hates that no one else measures up to her, but most of all, he hates that she's done this to him again, she's done it in a just a week and he's right back where he was when he watched her walk out from Truncheon all those months ago. In all fairness, he hates himself too, because he can't help feeling the way he does, he can't kill these feelings he has for her, no matter how many methods or devices he employs, this flame inside his heart that bears her name just won't go out or diminish and he's running out of ideas how to put it out.

Maybe it's time he stopped trying. If he's meant to self-destruct, he would rather have it happen at her hand than his own, because this forget-her-and-move-on thing is clearly not working, it just gets worse every time he goes through it, and he slowly realizes it's absurd to do this to himself, because this time, he's the one who walked away. The idea now seems beyond bizzare, and he wonders what he thought it would accomplish. He should have known he could never walk away from her, he's been going back to her ever since she entered his life, regardless of how much he tried not to, he always did, whether it was to deliver a box of food under false pretenses or a book he wrote because she thought he could. If this is love, then he loves her; but if this is love, he sincerely wishes he'd never known it.

Sleep finds him on the sofa because he can't bear the idea to crawl into the bed and find her there; morning brings a headache and more guilt over the nameless girl from the pub. The headache proves much easier to deal with, and after he pops an aspirin, he waits for the pounding between his temples to subside and wishes for a pill that would take the guilt away.

He's hungry, but he doesn't want to eat; he doesn't even want to look at the kitchen, let alone actually walk into it, knowing he'll only end up picturing her there. He goes out on the terrace instead and finds a few stale bagels leftover from yesterday; they taste horrible and it's like chewing on rocks, but he couldn't care less. He goes through them slowly, regretfully realizing that a visit to the kitchen is inevitable because it houses coffee, and if he doesn't get some, his head will surely split open. Having swallowed the last bagel, he stands up and steps back inside; the bed is the first thing that he sees and immediately, he sees her in it as well. His breath skips and he turns his eyes away from it quickly, wondering if he'll ever be able to look at that bed again and not see her in it, thinking how long it will take until he can actually make himself sleep in it again. When he reaches the kitchen, he makes it a point not to look around at all as he prepares his coffee, but as much as he tries to avoid seeing anything in there, he still notices her mug next to the coffee machine. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, suddenly feeling like he's living with a ghost, evasive but very present nonetheless.

Leaving his coffee to cool, he starts for the shower, but as he reaches for the cupboard in the bathroom, the ghost materializes in the form of a bra that hangs of the knob on the cupboard door. His heart stalls and he steps back and stares at it, completely incredulous that the its presence had somehow slipped his mind, wondering how he managed to forget there was a very real and tangible piece of her still here. He watches it hang there, small and unassuming; the desire to touch it is overwhelming, but he fights it because touching it will just bring her closer, and he needs to keep her as far away as possible to keep his sanity. He sits on the toilet and hides his face in his hands, desperately wondering how it has come to this, how he turned into such a crazed mess, when it all began and why it just gets worse, where this giant fear of getting hurt comes from and why it is so unbelievably hard to get past. It had never been a part of him before, he was never scared of anything, he used to be able to take everything in stride and dismiss it quickly if it didn't go his way, all of it, experiences and people, he never needed them for anything, he never needed anyone, he wouldn't let himself and things were fine. He never cared because nothing and no one seemed worth caring about, until her. He cared for her and she hurt him, that day at Truncheon she hurt him and there was real pain for the first time in his life, and a whole new dimension of feelings came into existence, a dimension he never experienced before and didn't know how to handle, and apparently, he still doesn't. There's just this crushing desire for her inside him that never changes, never ceases and never lets up, it's constant and persistent, and in situations like this one, it always wins.

His hand moves long before his mind catches up to it, and when it does, that little piece of cotton has burned his fingers already and it's resting against his lips now, soft and smelling like her. It brings that kiss back instantly; his heart races and his blood rushes, and he cringes, suddenly wanting to kick something. He jumps up and escapes the bathroom quickly, dropping the bra on the sofa, grabbing the coffee as he passes the kitchen, finally settling at the desk where he opens his laptop, suddenly wanting to write, knowing that it's the only other thing in his life he has a chance of losing himself in. Hours pass and he channels his emotions into words quickly and effortlessly, discharging with abandon. He resurfaces briefly to make another coffee, but returns to the laptop immediately and forgets all about it, never really taking his eyes off the screen or his fingers off the keyboard. He doesn't really notice, but the plot of the story changes dramatically as he types, and he only figures that out on the first reread after several chapters. He smiles in surprise, wondering why that is, wondering what brought this sudden brightness into a story that started out dark and gloomy, but he likes how it reads and decides not to mess with a good thing. He reads it again, and it still sounds right, but he realizes he's done with it for today, he's given it all he's got and now he feels completely drained but weirdly fulfilled at the same time.

He's really ready for a shower now, not to mention some real food, but as he takes his eyes of the screen, he's shocked to find darkness around him; he looks around for a clock and can't believe it says 9:15. He has no idea where the hours have gone, but maybe that's a good thing, because he had somehow gone through them without thinking about her at all. He finds the phone and orders pizza before he peels his clothes off and throws them into the washing machine, making a mental note to do laundry at some point, preferably before he runs out of clean underwear. The shower takes five minutes, and he has to face the bed again as he looks for his pajamas, and his chest tightens; he finds the bottoms and pulls them on, but the shirt he sleeps in proves evasive. After he turns over every pillow and blanket, he gives up and digs through the closet in search of a fresh one, but all prospective candidates turn out to need washing as well. Laundry suddenly becomes a priority and he navigates to the bathroom with an arm-full of clothes. He dumps them all into the machine and starts it, thinking he should really designate a laundry day. He stops by the fridge and pulls out a beer before he settles on the sofa, preparing for another face-off with the bra and everything it stands for.

The chaos within returns as soon as he looks at it, and doubles when he takes hold of it again. There has to be a way to deal with this, he rationalizes against the heat that spreads over him; there has to be a way to just live with it and not go crazy in the process. There is, that little voice returns immediately; there's the option to stop running from it all and just dive in, take a leap into the abyss and hope that somewhere in there, there is something to land on. If there isn't… well, that would have to be dealt with when the time comes. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, carefully daring to explore the brighter side of this leap. It would bring her back, it would give him everything he ever wanted, really, and she seems to want it now too; maybe for the first time, she seems very sure about it. She's not holding anything back, and he really felt it for the first time with that kiss; she had given into it completely, without restraint or reservation he always sensed were there when he had kissed her before. Maybe the stars have finally lined up correctly and placed them both at the right place at the right time. Maybe not. Maybe it's the universe playing another joke.

He finishes the beer and wishes this thing between them wasn't so gigantic and so charged, he wishes it less fierce, less compelling, less urgent, just less in general, because it would be less complicated then too, it would be easier to navigate if it didn't make his head spin or saturate the air with so much emotion that all the oxygen gets sucked out of it, making it impossible to think straight. All of that, and she's not even in the room.

The doorbell sounds and he jumps up, his stomach growling, and grabs some money on the way. He pulls the door open; his legs nearly give out from under him and he has to prop his hand against the doorway to stand up straight when blue eyes lock with his and she gives him an uncertain little smile.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	13. Faceoff

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**13. Face-off**

Rory had a whole speech prepared long before she ever left her apartment; she spent the entire afternoon devising it once she figured out she can't go through another night of tossing and turning. She had the entire conversation planned in her head, she knew exactly what she wanted to say and how she would say it, and she even had several strategies worked out, depending on how he reacted. It all evaporates without a trace the moment he opens the door; her mouth dries and her mind goes completely blank at the sight of him, bare-chested and damp-haired, propped up against the doorway, looking like a poster-boy for an underwear campaign. She stares into his face because it's the safest place to direct her eyes, scrambling to regain some brain function and find her voice. The gaze he gives her doesn't help; it's dark and penetrating, and she feels like he can see straight through her and into that place where all her feelings are pooling right now, making her legs feel like jelly and waking every nerve in her body – and he hasn't even spoken yet.

"Hey," he says after a small eternity; the voice is low and husky, and compliments the pajamas well.

"Hey," she echoes, faltering slightly, suddenly realizing she's holding her breath.

There's a short silence in which he just looks at her again. "Do you want to come in?"

She swallows hard and words betray her, so she just nods her head. He pushes the door open and moves out of the way, standing by the wall as she walks past him. She closes the door behind her and turns around to face him, her heart lodged in her throat as she gazes into his eyes again. A moment follows in which they just stand still, but in the next one, they're already reaching for each other in a frenzy of searching lips and groping hands, crashing against the wall and the closet before he pins her against the door and catches her lips with his. He makes short work of her jacket, and her bag lands on the floor with a thud, its contents scattering all over. She doesn't notice any of it; she just locks her fingers in his hair and pulls him closer, arching her back in an effort to close the gap between them. His hands slide down her sides in a rush and he pulls her hips flush against his own; a choked sound slips from her lips as he presses against her in just the right place and sends tingles spreading across her body.

The doorbell sounds sharply somewhere over her head and the spell is broken; he brushes against her lips softly one more time before he slowly pulls away from her, leaving her flushed and breathless against the door. He takes a step back, finds the money on a side table and hands it to her.

"Can you get that?" he asks in a slightly choked voice. "If I open the door right now, the delivery guy might get a seriously wrong idea."

Her eyes travel down him and she quickly understands what he means, and a weird sense of pride washes over her. She takes the money and turns around to the door, unable to help a small smile as she opens it. She takes the pizza and closes the door again; as she turns around, he's nowhere to be seen. Thankful for this short intermission amidst the chaos, she leans against the wall and tries to catch her breath and regain some semblance of control over the tingles that still shoot up and down her body before she walks over to the coffee table and puts the pizza down.

She finds him out on the terrace, his elbows propped on the railing and his head in his hands as he stares at the city lights in front of him. She leans against the doorway and watches him for a while, and the longer she watches him, the more perfect the scene becomes. He's standing perfectly still, like a flawlessly sculpted statue, but she can tell this peace is deceptive; something's going on under the stoic posture because the muscles in his arms and back shift and strain from time to time in little involuntary twitches. Her mouth dries again and she takes a breath, swallowing against the craving that swirls in the pit of her stomach.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks softly as a rush of wind comes across the terrace.

"You're joking, right?" he turns to her with his eyebrows raised. _Cold?_ He could sit in a tub-full of ice and turn it into a thermal spring within two seconds.

She smiles and he looks away again; the silence continues and she begins to fidget under its weight, hopelessly wondering why kissing him comes so easy while talking to him seems like an impossible mission, full of obstacles to maneuver over and traps to avoid. It's like a treasure hunt, and she has to read an encrypted map and solve all the puzzles correctly before she reaches the hidden chamber that houses the chest she's looking for.

"Why are you here?" he asks to the lights quietly.

"Why did you leave?" she counters softly, wishing he'd look at her.

He does. "I asked you first," he says, frowning.

"That's very mature," she smiles, but he looks away again and her heart stalls.

"Why are you here?" he repeats firmly and she makes a mental note to steer clear of any attempts at humor.

"You left," she says simply. "I wanted to know why."

He looks at her and his eyebrows lift again. "That's it? That's your only reason for being here?"

There's a challenge in his eyes and she knows she has to take it if she wants to keep the conversation going. "No," she says softly. "I also wanted to see you."

He turns around completely this time, his elbows still propped on the railing, but now he's facing her. "Why?"

She loses her trail of thought again as her mind shifts to other things, like how smooth his skin looks or how perfectly defined his chest is, and it takes her a significant amount of effort to wrench her thoughts away from all of that and direct her mind to the question at hand. "Because it's you," she says simply.

"That really doesn't answer my question," he frowns. "I have no idea what that means inside your head."

She sighs; clearly, he has no intention of making this simple or easy on her – in fact, he seems determined to make it as difficult and complicated as humanly possible. Why this comes as a surprise, she has no idea. Shaking her head, she steps down from the door and sits in his favorite chair, unsure she can handle what's coming standing up. She takes a moment to regroup and form the sentences in her head before she pushes her hair out of her face and looks up at him.

"I wanted to see you because it's you, and I always want to see you. I've felt that way ever since the first time you walked into my house and stole – sorry, borrowed - that book off my shelf. That never changed and I doubt it ever will." She takes a breath. "And to answer your other question, I came here because you left the way you did. You're very good at walking away, but I've stared at your back disappearing in the distance too many times, and I'm not willing to repeat the experience." Her throat tightens but she tries very hard to keep her voice even. "I don't want this to end like that."

He stares at her but she holds his gaze without flinching, without faltering at all, perfectly still and with no intention of looking away. He has no idea what he expected to hear when he asked the questions, but it was definitely nothing close to this. In all fairness, he was half hoping for something that would allow him to get angry, because somehow, inexplicably, he's actually frustrated with her for showing up and furious with himself for losing it so completely as soon as she stepped into the apartment.

"What is _this, _anyway?" he sneers contemptuously. "There's really nothing there, so there's nothing to end, this way or that."

She narrows her eyes. "Oh, there's something there, Jess, and you know it. As far as I can remember, I wasn't the only one getting unhinged against that door a few minutes ago," she snaps at him. "You were there too, and you're still sporting a bit of evidence of that."

"Hey, here's a news-flash for you – some things are actually conditioned by biology; I wouldn't attach a deep meaning to them," he bites back viciously. "If it wasn't you, it would have been somebody else."

It's a big fat lie and he has no idea why he throws it out there until pain registers in her eyes and he realizes that's what he was going for. He doesn't really know where this sudden desire to hurt her comes from, but it's there and he just runs with it. The expression on her face changes; the pain drifts away and she looks at him with mild curiosity.

"Okay, so what you're saying is that none of it meant anything? That kiss yesterday, the one right now, this whole past week – it would have all been the same to you if it wasn't me, if it was anyone else?" she asks calmly, watching him carefully.

He'd started the hole with that last lie, and now he just digs himself in deeper. "For the most part, yeah."

She stands up and steps closer to him, crossing her hands on her chest. "Then why did you walk away, Jess? If it was all so unimportant and insignificant, why did you say it was you and it was me, and you couldn't deal with another aftermath of that?"

There's a very small time frame in which he has to answer this question if he wants to sound truthful, and he misses it completely. The silence stretches and her lips curl up slightly. "I think you're lying," she says softly. "It's unfair, considering I answered all of your questions. Why can't you just answer one of mine?" She shakes her head, running her hands through her hair in frustration. "Why do you always do this? Every time you come across something you don't know how to handle, you just bolt," she says exasperatedly.

He flinches violently and his eyes grow darker. "If I remember correctly – and trust me, I know I do, because the scene is lodged in my head forever – the last time I saw you, not counting this little reunion from last week, you were the one that bolted," he grits through his teeth, and there is so much resentment and judgment in his voice that it makes her stagger backwards, suddenly feeling very small as he throws that scene into her face. "How about we talk about that for a second?," he straightens up and his eyes narrow. "_You _came to see me, remember? You came to Truncheon and we kissed, and then you told me you were in love with that arrogant jerk that cheated on you, after which you pulled a vanishing act that Houdini would be proud of. I mean, I don't get it, even when you're with other guys, you manage to find the time and kiss me, totally screwing me in the process, and I'm curious, does this come out of some elaborate planning or is it just your second nature to mess with my head?"

"I'm sorry," she interjects quickly when he stops to catch his breath, but it's clearly the wrong thing to say because he rounds on her with a vengeance.

"Sorry? You're sorry," he laughs incredulously, running his hands through his hair. "Sorry is for when you accidentally break a vase or spill wine on the tablecloth. This is so far beyond sorry that the word sounds ridiculous!" His voice rises with every word and soon, he's yelling at her. "Do you have any idea what I went through after you walked out that door? I nearly killed myself trying to get over you! I was drunk for months, I went through what feels like a million girls trying to find one, just one, that would get you out of my system, Matt and Chris nearly kicked me out of Truncheon all together but for God only knows what reason, they ultimately decided to land my ass over here as a last resort, hoping I'll get my act together!" He takes a breath, trying to get his voice under control. "And you know what? I did get it together, and I was fine. I was great, until some twisted joke of the universe landed you back into my life, and the whole disaster of you and me unraveled again, and now, I'm right back where I was when you kissed me and ran to Dean, and then again when you kissed me and ran to Logan, and now you've done it again, so it's only a matter of time before you run to someone else. It's what you do, and you execute it perfectly, with a level of cruelty that would make de Sade proud," he says viciously, aware that he's exaggerating, but he can't help himself, although he feels a sting of regret when he sees her face pale. He shakes his head and looks into her eyes. "Seriously, do you really need me to explain why I walked away from you yesterday? Because from where I stand, it's like asking why I walked away from a nuclear meltdown in the making."

Unable to speak, she just shakes her head no; she slowly returns to the chair, sits down and hides her face in her hands. She knew it would be a horrible thing to go through, this conversation; she knew that what she had done was unbelievably cruel and unfair to him, but she had no idea how cruel it was until she just heard him repeat it. It's beyond any excuses or explanations, even beyond forgiveness probably, and for the first time, she thinks it might be beyond fixing. The thought chills her to the bone but the next one reminds her that if this is as far as it goes, then there's nothing left to lose and she at least wants him to know why she did what she did. She takes her hands of her face and looks up at him; she finds him right where she left him, still gazing at her.

"I was scared," she says quietly, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm not trying to make excuses, I just want you to know how I felt, and I was scared."

He frowns. "Of what?"

"Of you, of me. Most of all, of the way you made me feel." She sighs. "When I was with you, you made me feel like nothing else in the world mattered, nothing and no one, and it scared me that you could make me lose myself like that." She shakes her head. "Dean was… safe. Predictable. He was like a lazy summer afternoon, easy and comfortable. You… you were like a thunderstorm, with gorgeous lightening flashes across the sky, extreme and evasive, impossible to follow or hold on to. You didn't need anyone, you didn't belong to anything and you didn't want to." His eyes narrow and for a moment she senses he wants to say something, but the moment passes and he stays silent. She takes a breath and looks away from him. "Logan was… fun, for the most part. But he wasn't you, and when you showed up out of nowhere to drop your book off, I realized just how much he wasn't you."

"You said you loved him," Jess reminds her jadedly.

She looks up and locks her eyes with his. "I lied," she says softly; her heart skips a beat when the faintest ghost of a smirk hovers in the corner of his lips for a second.

He nods his head. "I knew you did," he says simply.

She gapes at him. "You did? How?"

He shrugs. "The same way you knew I was lying a few minutes ago, I guess."

Her breath catches as the smallest glimmer of light appears at the end of this tunnel she's stuck in. "So you _were_ lying," she says quietly.

He stares at her for a long time but he says nothing, and his face shows nothing either. She stays quiet and looks at him with baited breath, waiting for something to happen, waiting for a crack to appear in this granite wall he erected around himself. Nothing happens, and after a while he turns away from her and stares out at the city again. Minutes drift by slowly, and as each next one passes, it gets harder for her to just sit there and stare at his back as he stands there, silent and still. Finally she reaches the end of her rope and stands up quietly, then walks over and leans next to him, close but careful not to touch him.

"If you can look at me, and tell me that everything that happened in this last week meant nothing to you, I'll go," she says quietly. "But if it did mean something, then letting me go would be a huge mistake, Jess. I know, because I've let go of you before, and I shouldn't have, and I've wondered, I've wondered so many times what could have been if I'd have had… well, if I'd have had the balls to hang on to you." He still doesn't look at her and she swallows and crosses her fingers. "I know I hurt you, and I won't pretend to know what you went through because of it, but I do know what it's like to live with a thousand what-ifs and might-have-beens, and it's not something you want to do, please, just trust me on that." She takes a breath and her heart climbs in her throat. "So can you look at me and tell me that, Jess? Can you tell me all of this meant nothing?"

He turns his head and looks at her, and their eyes clash in silent battle. She knows she's cornered him and she knows there's considerable risk in that because it might just make him fly off the handle again, but the longer she looks at him, she somehow knows he won't. He looks tired, too tired to fight her again and he gazes at her with something resembling defeat mirrored in his eyes, he gazes at her for a long time before he finally shakes his head and looks away. "No, I can't tell you that," he says quietly.

Her heart swells and she wants to shriek and sing and dance, but all she dares to do is breathe again, slowly and delicately, scared that if she does anything else, anything more, she may somehow unwillingly undo this miracle she just witnessed, so she just looks out at the lights and smiles. She knows she shouldn't stay very long, she knows him and she knows he needs some time and space now, but she just can't bring herself to leave yet so she stays where she is for a while longer, she stays until her heart settles down and her breath returns to normal. He remains silent and motionless through it all, and she wishes again she could crawl into his head and see what's going on in his mind, just for a second.

"I have to go," she says softly when a distant church bell beats twelve times.

He turns to her quickly, his eyebrows raised. "What, now?"

She shrugs. "I have to work in a few hours."

There's a beat of silence before he speaks again. "You can stay here," he says quietly.

The urge to hug him is overwhelming, but she restrains herself; the yearning to crawl back into his bed is nearly impossible to resist, but she remembers how easily things had flown out of control earlier that evening and right now, she knows it's better not to go down that road again.

"I know," she nods and looks at him carefully. "But for now, I think it's better if I go home."

He understands and he even smirks at her slightly, and it's like a ray of sunshine on a cold day. "Let me just find some clothes and I'll walk you," he says and starts for the door.

"You don't have to do that," she protests as she follows him inside.

"It's late," he says as he pulls sweatpants on over the pajamas. "You're not walking home alone." He finds a sweatshirt and pulls that on as well before he walks down into the living-room.

"I've done it before, I'll be fine," she tries again.

"Well, then you were stupid before," he declares matter-of-factly.

"You haven't eaten," she says, pointing to the pizza that still sits on the coffee table.

He shrugs. "I'll heat it up when I get back," he says dismissively as he puts his shoes on.

She picks up her bag and collects the scattered items from the floor; she suddenly remembers the kissing and when she stands up and looks at him, the look in his eyes tells her he's thinking about it too. They stare at each other for a moment, but then he smirks, shaking his head, and hands her her jacket before he opens the door.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	14. Monday

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

**Marina**, thanks for the reviews and I'm very proud to have made you break your non-reviewing resolution :D Hopefully now that you have done it for the first (and second) time, you'll make a habit of it because all authors love reviews!

_**As to where I've been...  
**For those who are interested, I'm going to give a short overview of the crap that has been the past six weeks. For those who aren't, feel free to skip over this part and head down to the story._

_Anyway, it's been roughly six weeks since the last update, which is a small eternity for me, as those of you who have been reading my stories know. As frustrating as the wait might have been for you, I swear it was much worse for me :) I had a horrible two weeks at work at the beginning of July, I was literally working 24/7, and the minute the whole craziness was over, I packed my bags, my dogs and my boyfriend and went on vacation. We shacked up in our little beach-house and spent amazing three weeks sprawled on the beach, swimming, sailing, and, in my case, diligently continuing to write ATW on a daily basis. The downside was no Internet access and therefore no way to post what I had written, no way to check emails etc., but I was happy I'd have the story all but finished by the time I got back home. It was idyllic, a perfect vacation. Untill the last week, when everything went to crap, at least as far as ATW was concerned. The disaster came in the shape of a thunderstorm that, among other less important things, caused a power surge and completely fried my laptop. It just died. Completely. For a few days before I came back home, I harbored a small hope that maybe, MAYBE, some of the hard drive could be salvaged, but - no such luck. So basically, everything I had written was gone._

_I don't know if any of you have ever found yourself in a situation where you were facing a re-write of something like six or seven chapters. If you have, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, believe me, it sucks. And it sucks even worse for me, because generally in life, I hate do-overs so much that I never even let myself fail an exam because I knew I would never be able to make myself study the same material again. When I lost everything that I'd written, I pretty much thought that was it, I'd never write anything again. That mind-set lasted for about two weeks, but a few days ago, the itch returned and I decided to try writing and see how it goes. Surprisingly, it went well, although it's still frustrating :) And so, the story continues, with good chances to go on, because I sort of made a compromise and decided to change it a little to avoid rehashing the things I wrote before. It seems to work for me, and hopefully, it will work for you too :)_

_Anyway, the chapter is here, and hopefully you'll enjoy it..._

* * *

**14. Monday**

For Rory, Monday starts out great; the morning is sunny and warm, and she strolls to work with a huge smile on her face and a giant paper-cup of coffee in her hand. She picked it up from a place she'd never been to before, and even though it smells weird and tastes horrible, she drinks it haitually because she's busy remembering the smile he gave her when they'd said goodbye in front of her building. They'd walked in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts; they hadn't spoken at all, and when they reached her door, he just smiled and looked at her briefly before he turned around and walked away. It was a tiny, miniscule thing, that smile, but it kept her warm all night and continues to glow indside her as she walks down the streets. She smiles wider and ditches the coffee into a trash can outside her office.

...

Jess wakes up late and stares into the ceiling, cautiously replaying last night's conversation in his head. He instantly hates himself for flying of the handle and screaming like a banshee – so much for playing it cool, but then again, playing it cool sort of went down the drain anyway the moment she stepped into the apartment. As soon as the memory enters his mind, the scene against the door replays itself in excrutiating detail, and he pulls a pillow over his head and groans in frustration. This is not what was supposed to happen. Nothing was supposed to happen. He was supposed to walk away and she wasn't supposed to come after him, not anymore. And even if she did, he was supposed not to care, and spilling his guts and a steamy make-out session certainly don't qualify as being indifferent. Why can't he just not care? He used to be so good at that. And as long as he does care, why can't he just lie when asked and say that he doesn't? He groans harder and pulls the blanket over his head.

...

_So what now_, Rory wonders as she sips on her second coffee, this one significantly better than the first one, while she stares into her monitor, pretending to read something that she has no real interest in. She had slowly descended from the clouds she's been walking on ever since she woke up and now her analytical self is called upon to disect, asses and review everything more or less objectively. Once she does, it's like a cold shower, because she slowly realizes how much anger and contempt there was in the things he said, and even though he admitted there were still feelings there, she suddenly understands he regrets having them. The glow she's been feeling slowly fades and for a moment, it's difficult to remember what it was she was so happy about in the morning – the smile suddenly seems pale and small when compared to everything else. It's difficult to admit, but she can't blame him for feeling the way he does, she can't hold the bitterness and the cynicism and the distrust he's shown against him because he's entitled to them all, and just the fact that he's willing to talk to her at all suddenly feels like a small miracle. For a second, she wonders if she would be as gracious towards him if it was the other way around. Probably not; but again…it's Jess, and she's not sure if there's anything she wouldn't be able to forgive him. Maybe it's the same with him. Maybe that's what the smile was about.

...

The city looks the same as the day before as Jess looks at it from his favorite chair; and just as it is so easy to lose sight of all reason when Rory is present and lights twinkle in the darkness, it returns with a vengeance once she's gone and daylight shows shapes and sizes the way they really are. Nothing's really changed, he thinks stubbornly; he ranted a little, said some things that he'd rather he didn't, but maybe they needed to be said, maybe it would be easier now that he's got them out, maybe some closure would come out of it and he'd be able to put the whole sad episode behind him and just… move on. Maybe he would have been able to, if it was just him that talked. But she said things too, and although he hates to allow this particular truth and does so very reluctantly, some of the things she said made sense. She said she had been scared; he knows that's true, because although she had never said it out loud, he had felt it nonetheless. He had felt her holding back from him, and now that she's told him why, it's frustrating because he can understand the feeling, he can relate to it completely because it's not unlike what he's feeling now. He understands, but it just makes him angry, because he doesn't really want to understand, because understanding is just a first step on the road he promised himself he wouldn't go down again. Just as the thought enters his mind, it suddenly becomes clear to him he's already walking that very road, and he laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head in disbelief as he flicks a cigarette butt over the railing with a vengeance. Maybe it's just his road to travel; it certainly seems to be, because no matter what he does, he somehow always ends up on it.

...

Rory holds out until two in the afternoon, although she had picked her phone up at least a dozen times until then, sometimes just staring at it, sometimes even scrolling to his name, but always laying it down before hitting the dial button. She doesn't want to be the one that calls, but there's a sickening feeling in her stomach that tells her he's not going to, and she refuses to let the situation turn into a twisted competition of who can hold out longer. Maybe he can hold out forever, and she's not willing to test that, so she finally takes a breath and hits the little green button. She grips the phone tighter as she listens to the cold ringing tone; it echoes in her ears much too long and her heart sinks when she realizes there'll be no answer. Still, she can't bring herself to hang up, and she waits for the line to disconnect automatically before she puts the phone down and hides her face in her hands, listening to her heart beat as chills run down her spine. It takes her a moment to regroup, and she shakes the feeling off, sternly telling herself not to read too much into it – he might be in the shower, he might be out, he might be writing... She lets another hour go by and then redials; this time she doesn't bother with excuses, she just listens sadly as the ringing goes on and on.

...

Jess stares at the flashing screen, and the words Rory printed on the display. He wants to answer it and he doesn't, but underneath that dilemma, he's actually surprised at her persistence. It's the second call in an hour; yesterday, she came looking for him after he'd walked away, and a pattern of determination is beginning to show, a determination that is unexpected and puzzling but somehow weirdly reassuring and endearing at the same time, and it makes him smile. She seems so very certain about what she wants, and he suddenly wishes he felt half as certain as she seems to be. It's ironic, really, how somehow they've come full circle - it's almost like something out of a Shakespearean play, where the timing and the circumstances are all wrong and the characters completely out of sync with each other until it all culminates in some horrible tragedy that could easily have been avoided if only someone had said something or done something at the right time. Maybe he's missing the right time right now, staring at this phone and doing nothing. Or maybe it not like a play at all, maybe it's more like a really bad movie, and answering the phone would be equivalent to an unsuspecting blonde girl walking down the stairs to investigate a noise in the basement when it's obvious there's a psycho killer waiting to mutilate her with a hatchet at the bottom of the stairs. Why do they always go down to the bloody basement anyway? The phone falls silent and he stares at it for another moment before he finally shakes his head and smirks, standing up quickly, ultimately deciding he'd rather be the blonde girl than a tragic hero.

...

Four o'clock is slow in coming, and once it does arrive, it's unclear to Rory why she'd been waiting for it so eagerly. There's really no place she wants to go, or nowhere she wants to be, and she feels as empty as she leaves work as she's been feeling ever since she listened to that hollow ringing tone and the nothingness that came after it. The day is as beautiful and as bright as it was in the morning, but it brings her no joy, and she walks down the stairs slowly, checking her phone again. There's no missed calls, no messages, no nothing. She flips the phone closed and steps outside, and the world suddenly changes as she looks across the street – she stops cold, and wonders what it is that makes it so easy for her to single him out in a crowd instantly and why her eyes find him immediately whenever he is within her field of vision.

He's sitting on a park wall across the street, coffee in hand; something seems strange about the scene and as she starts to walk over, she realizes it's the absence of a book. He's actually waiting for her, and that seems to be his only purpose for the moment; he's not even pretending to read, he's just sitting there, looking at the building, waiting for her to show up. The relief she feels is beyond description, and as she waits for the traffic lights to change, she suddenly feels lighter than air, like her feet are not touching the ground at all as she walks, but like she's slowly gliding towards him. Once she reaches him, he picks up the second coffee cup from the wall beside him and hands it to her with raised eyebrows. She takes it with a small smile and sits beside him, her feet dangling next to his.

"I didn't expect to see you here," she says softly.

He nods. "Yeah, me neither," he admits. "But it was my turn."

She smiles. "Yeah, I guess it was." She opens the paper cup and sniffs the coffee suspiciously. "Are you sure about this coffee? I had a really horrifying experience with one of these this morning."

"I'm sure," he smirks. "But be warned, it's Irish." She looks surprised and he shrugs. "I thought we could both use it."

She nods. "Good call."

They just sit quietly for a while, sipping their coffees.

"So, I called you twice today," Rory says matter-of-factly and stares across the street, not really daring to look at him.

"I know," he says simply.

"You didn't pick up, but I guess you know that too," she continues, trying to keep the sarcasm down to a minimum, but a fair amout seeps through nonetheless.

He doesn't speak, but she senses him nodding his head, and she turns and looks at him. "Why didn't you pick up, Jess?"

He looks at her and she's suddenly sorry she asked the question and afraid he will answer it; she's also scared what the answer might be. His face offers no clues or hints of his thoughts and feelings, and so she just waits for the words to come. "I wasn't sure I wanted to," he says honestly; her heart skips a beat but he doesn't take his eyes off hers and even though she wants to look away, she just can't bring herself to do it.

"Is that what you came here to tell me?" she asks plainly when the staring contest starts to get old.

"I honestly have no idea why I came", he chuckles and shakes his head. She gives him an annoyed look and he shrugs his shoulders. "I know, it's ridiculous."

"Well, this promises to be a really fruitful conversation," she says, exasperated. "Maybe I should just talk to that tree over there, it would make more sense."

He smirks at her briefly, then finishes his coffee and throws the paper cup into a trash can before he jumps off the wall. "Come on," he says casually.

Rory looks at him for a moment before she slides down from the wall, thrashing her own cup. "Where are we going?"

"Just this place I like to go," he says simply. She opens her mouth to ask something else, but gets sidetracked when he takes her hand and gently pulls her down the street after him. They fall into step easily and she expects him to let go of her once they do, but he doesn't; he just keeps walking slowly, his fingers wrapped around hers, and for a moment, that's all she can think about, how warm his hand is and how much bigger than her own, and how comforting it feels to have him hold her like this. She wants to share this feeling somehow, and so she squeezes his hand tighter, and it's only then that Jess realizes he's holding her hand at all. The realization startles him; he had reached for her instinctively, without even thinking about it, and her hand somehow felt so natural in his own that he forgot it was there at all, small and warm. He briefly debates letting go of her, but realizes quickly he doesn't want to, and so he just squeezes back in response and keeps walking.

He takes her to the lighthouse, and the long walk goes by in silence, but somehow still passes much quicker than when he walked it alone two days ago. They sit down on the rocks and he lets go of her hand; she doesn't know if it's the wind or the sudden absence of his warmth, but she suddenly feels cold and wraps her jacket tighter around herself as she looks out over the waves that crash against the rocks.

"I've never been here before," she says as she looks around. "It's beautiful."

Jess pushes his hands into his pockets and squints against the wind. "I sometimes come out here to clear my head," he says quietly.

She nods. "Yeah, I can see that." She looks at him curiously. "When were you here last?"

He searches her face briefly before he answers. "Saturday. When I left you at the Book market, I came here." Her eyes widen but she says nothing, and he looks out over the water again and shakes his head, smirking slightly. "You know, that last month here, before I ran into you in that supermarket, was the first time since I met you that I hadn't thought about you at all. I thought you were out of my life, and I was fine with that, finally. I took me a small eternity to get to that point, but I was finally there."

Rory's heart climbs in her throat and her mouth dries; she knows she should say something, but can't think of anything that's not an apology and the last time she offered one, it didn't go over very well, so she just swallows and stays silent, her eyes directed at the ships in the bay. He looks back at her and studies her for a moment, sitting still with her arms wrapped around herself, her hair tousled by the wind and a sad expression on her face, and suddenly, there's incredible yearning within to see her smile again. He shakes his head and looks back to the water.

"This should be so much easier, you and me. It should be easier when you really get someone, and we do, we always did. I have no idea why it always turns into a disaster, I have no idea how it happens, but somehow, it always does," he says to the water. "Maybe it's time we just let it go."

Her fists clench around her jacket, but she doesn't move. "It's not the same as before," she says evenly.

"Really?" He looks at her curiously. "How is it different?"

She looks at him steadily. "Because we are different. I've done my thing, you've done yours. There are no schools, or mothers, or uncles, or boyfriends. There's no Stars Hollow. There's just you and me. And yes, there could be another disaster down the road, but if there is, this time it will be our own doing, because there's no people or circumstances to blame it on."

He chuckles. "You're thinking it's the mothers and the uncles and whatever else that screwed things?"

She shrugs. "I'm not saying we had nothing to do with it. I'm just saying there's a difference. And I'd rather have the chance to screw things up if that's what's meant to be, then go on with my life and wonder what might have been." She shrugs and smiles slightly. "If I have to have regrets about this in the future, I'd rather regret doing something than doing nothing."

He holds her gaze for a minute and then looks away again. Maybe she's right. Or maybe she's just never gone through the same type of hell he had.

"There's another thing, too," her voice comes again. "There's this, right now."

He looks back at her, frowning. "You lost me. I thought that's what we were talking about."

She smiles. "Exactly. The talking thing. We haven't had many of these types of conversations. I can only remember one – when you came to Hartford and told me to get a grip - and that one made a huge difference in my life." She shrugs. "Maybe we should have talked more. About you and me, not just books, and movies, and music, and so on."

He nods and a small smile escapes him. "Yeah, maybe."

She smiles back and it's a smile he's been wanting to see, and he wants to keep seeing it. He had been fine during that month without her in his head, but she's back now and it's getting painfully clear that now being fine requires her to stay. Being happy means being with her, and even though his stomach turns again at the prospect of another meltdown, he can't really deny anymore that he wants to keep her. As he looks at her, the smile slowly disappears and she looks down at her feet and those funny boots; she stays still and quiet for a moment, but then she lifts her eyes back to his and there's such an honest look there that it makes him skip a breath.

"For what it's worth, there's hasn't been a day in my life since I've known you that I hadn't thought about you or remembered you," she says slowly. It sounds so incredible that he laughs out loud before he can stop himself.

She smiles. "You don't believe me?"

He shakes his head. "No, I don't. Sorry, I just can't see you walking around campus brooding over me, or having dinner with what's-his-name and wishing it was me…it's just a little far-fetched. Unless you meant like, you know, a guy happens to walk by in a Metallica shirt and you think – oh yeah, Jess had a shirt like that, or something to that effect, which I sincerely doubt would have happened on a daily basis."

She frowns. "Okay, how about every time I read a book I liked, I'd wonder if you had read it, and wanted to know what you thought. Or every time I saw a good movie, or heard a Clash song? Every time I talked to Luke, every time someone even mentioned him, my mind would go straight to you. Every time I crossed that bridge in Stars Hollow, you were in my head. Let's not even mention Hemingway, who I still dislike immensely, but actually took a class in, a decision I still can't comprehend aside from the fact that reading him reminded me of you." She shrugs. "I could go on, for hours, trust me."

He stares at her, speechless for a minute, still unsure he can believe her, but at a loss when trying to figure out what her motive for lying would be.

"It wasn't a conscious choice," she continues. "I just couldn't help myself. You were just… present."

He knows the feeling well – it's like having your own ghost. You never really see it, but it's always there. And as long as it's there anyway, maybe it's just as well to actually have it materialized, and the fact that it materializes in a breathtaking package is just an added bonus. As he stares out at the waves, he suddenly feels her move and in the next second she's crouching in front of him, her small hands resting on his knees.

"I know there's some part of you that wants this," she says softly. "If there wasn't, we wouldn't be here. I know I did I horrible, cruel thing. If there was any way for me to undo it, I would, but there isn't. "She takes a breath and gives him a pleading look." So please, can you just… let it go? Even just a little?"

He swallows, thinking it's completely impossible to deny her anything when she looks at him like this. "I don't know," he mutters.

"Will you try?" she asks gently and it's immediately very clear to him that he will. He nods his head slowly and runs his hands through her hair, pushing it against the wind and away from her face, watching a smile appear there and spread to her eyes; in the next second, it all vanishes, her face, the wind and the waves as he brushes his lips against hers. There's just the sweet taste of the kiss, gentle and searching, and slow to the point of madness, but there's no need to rush and he gets lost in the laziness of it easily. It's an awkward position they're in, and once his brain catches up with it, he stands up slowly and pulls her with him; she steps closer and wraps her arms around him. It immediately gets easier to tilt heads, adjust angles and switch gears, but standing so close, the dynamics of the kiss changes quickly and becomes more urgent and demanding, leaving them both flushed and breathless when they finally come up for air.

"This is new," he smirks at her, wrapping his arms around her. "You didn't kiss like this in our prior life."

"Somehow I can't tell if that's a compliment or an insult," she laughs.

He chuckles. "A little bit of both, I guess."

She rolls her eyes and steps away from him; pulling him by the hand, she starts back toward the city. "As beautiful as this place is, how about we take this somewhere warmer? I'm freezing!"

"Sure," he follows. "What did you have in mind?"

"I need food. I'd love a meatball sub," she smiles. "You?"

"I'd love to see you naked," he says casually.

She laughs, but can't help a blush. "Is that before or after the food?"

"Preferably before," he smirks. "But if you're really starving, I guess I can wait until you finish a sandwich."

"Aren't you jumping the gun a little?" She chuckles. "What makes you think you get to see me naked at all?"

He laughs. "If there's no naked involved, I think I'll have to rethink this whole thing."

She shrugs. "What if I'm saving myself for marriage?"

"Then I'll either have to marry you, or kill myself," he smirks, and cranes his neck. "And since I'm much too young to die, keep your eye out for a priest."

She giggles, but makes no comment, and for a moment he wonders if she's serious. He dismisses the thought quickly – she wouldn't kiss the way she does if she was serious. Or would she?

"You were joking, right? About the saving yourself for marriage thing?"

She glances at him, and for a second feels tempted to torture him a little, but can't really keep a straight face, so she just laughs instead.

"You're hilarious," he rolls his eyes.

"If you could have seen your face just now, you'd understand," she chuckles.

He shakes the remark off, then switches gears. "So, was it what's-his-name? Your first?"

Her heart jumps into her throat and a chill runs down her spine; this is not a conversation she wants to get into, not yet. She thinks it would probably be easier for him to live Logan down than Dean, but she doesn't want to start this new thing off with a lie. She takes a breath and keeps a straight face. "If I tell you mine, you'll have to tell me yours; are you sure you want to get into that?"

He laughs. "God, no, not under such harsh conditions. Someday, maybe, but not now."

She nods. "Yeah, someday sounds good."

They're back in the city soon and Jess finds a Subway; Rory gets her meatball sub and he watches her devour it, wondering again how something so small can consume so much food in one sitting. It's getting dark out, and as she finishes her sandwich, she wonders what happens next. Was he serious about the naked thing? From across the table, it somehow feels too soon, but she knows that when he kisses her again, she'll just feel it can't come soon enough. Maybe it's better to get it out of the way – after all, it's only sex, why make a fuss over it?

"Okay, I'm full," she announces with a sigh. "That was great."

"Glad to hear it," he laughs.

"So… the naked part. Your place or mine?" she asks matter-of-factly.

He stares at her for a second, then bursts out laughing. "Are you serious?"

She raises her eyebrows. "You weren't serious earlier?"

"I was serious about wanting to see you naked, eventually, at some point in not so distant future, hopefully, but you know, not necessarily the moment after you were finished eating!"

"Okay, I didn't get that," she smiles sweetly, then gives him a challenging look. "So does that mean you don't want to go?"

He frowns. "Go where?"

"My place, your place, wherever."

"No, I want to. I just meant I don't expect you to strip the moment we walk through either of those doors," he smirks.

"Noted," she smiles and gets up, heading for the door. He follows her into the street; once they're out, he throws his arm around her and heads to the left. "Let's go to your place. I want to see where you live."

"You know where I live."

"Okay fine, I want to see how you live then."

She smiles. "Messy, but sure."

They turn a few corners and quickly find themselves in front of her building; she's on the first floor so there's no endless staircase syndrome, but once they're in front of the apartment door, finding the key proves to be an impossible mission, even after she takes out every bit of paraphernalia from her bag and neatly arranges everything on the stairs. The key is just not there.

"Oh crap, not again," she says exasperatedly.

His eyebrows rise. "Again? You make a habit of losing your keys?"

"I don't lose my keys, I just… forget them places."

"Places?"

She nods, turning her bag inside out. "Yes, places… like at work."

"Work is work, it's not places."

"Okay fine," she sighs. "I left them at the coffee place across the street once."

"Amazing."

She frowns. "Spare me. I have to go back to work."

"You're sure it's there?"

"Well, where else can it be?"

"I don't know… a park bench, a bus," he offers with a smirk.

"Funny."

"Hey, it's a legitimate question, considering."

"Even funnier," she rolls her eyes. "I have to go back to work. I probably left the keys on my desk, I remember seeing them there this morning."

"Okay, so they'll still be there tomorrow. "

She shrugs. "Probably."

"So let's just go to my place, you'll just get the keys tomorrow."

"I have no pajamas, and no change of clothes," she points out exsperatedly.

"You have a change of bra," he smirks, and she makes a face. "Come on, you can last with the clothes you have one more day, and I promise to find you pajamas."

She looks at him and smiles, nodding her head. "Okay, I can live with that."

They leave the building and make their way to his apartment; somewhere along the way, Rory suddenly laughs out loud.

Jess looks at her suspiciously. "What's funny?"

She shrugs. "Nothing, it just occurred to me that you'll actually get your way tonight." She smiles at the puzzled expression on his face. "I'll definitely be taking my clothes off at some point."

He laughs. "Yeah, I guess so. Although I wouldn't be surprised if this was actually some elaborate scheme to take advantage of me. Maybe you have some secret compartment in that bottomless bag of yours, and you've just hidden your keys in order to sneak your way into my bed."

"And that would help me how, exactly? Experience shows that, when I'm in your bed, you choose to sleep on the couch."

"Ouch," he smirks, then shrugs his shoulders. "Just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished."

She laughs, and he pushes the building door open; once again, they face the neverending stairway.

"I hate these stairs with unbelievable passion," Rory pants out about half way up.

"Just think of the view," Jess reminds her and pushes her up to get her going again.

"I am thinking of the view. It doesn't help," she whines and starts walking again.

"Well, then think how much of that meatball sub you're working off," he smirks.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I don't count calories," she declares. "My mother would disown me if I even mentioned something like that."

"Wow, then you're lucky you're blessed with an incredible metabolism – at the rate and quantity that you eat, you would be a whale otherwise," he laughs.

"I didn't realize you were monitoring my eating habits," she quips over her shoulder.

He laughs. "I'm not. They just never cease to amaze me."

"Then it doesn't take much to impress you," she grins at him, finally reaching the apartment door.

"You know that's not true," he smirks. "I actually have very high standards."

He opens the door and lets her in first; once the door is closed behind them, they each lean on the opposite wall in the small hallway and take a moment to catch their breaths. Having had more practice, Jess comes out of it first and moves over to her wall, propping his hands against the wall on either side of her face.

"Hi," he says quietly.

"Hi," she breathes back.

"Will you suffocate if I kiss you?"

She smiles. "I'm willing to risk it," she says between breaths and pulls on his jacket. Within seconds, the scene from the night before begins to replay itself as jackets drop to the floor and they stagger into the livingroom, bumping into various pieces of furniture in the darkness. Suddenly, the light comes on and a voice sounds from the terrace door.

"Oi! I'd keep my clothes on if I were you!"

They nearly jump out of their skins as they whirl around and face the shape in the doorway.

"Jesus, you nearly gave me a stroke," Jess sighs with relief, then grins widely. "What the hell are you doing here, Matt?"

"It's great to see you too, man," Matt grins back, strolling into the livingroom.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	15. Conversations

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**15. Conversations**

"You should have called," Jess says as he pulls Matt into a bear hug.

Matt laughs. "What, and miss the opportunity to catch you with your pants down? Although it seems I stepped in a few minutes early for that particular scene." He turns to Rory, grinning widely. "Sorry, I'm an ass, I can't help it."

Rory smiles. "I promise I won't hold it against you."

"I appreciate that," he returns, then looks her over. "You're pretty and you seem smart. What are you doing with this loser?"

"Thanks, man," Jess throws in as he kicks his shoes off. "It's great to see you haven't lost any of your charm," he smirks. "But, seriously, what are you doing here?"

Matt sinks into the couch, stretching. "Just passing through. I'm on my way to see Mom, and I thought I'd drop in on you on the way. Don't worry, I won't cramp your style for long, I'm out of here tomorrow night." He sits up and glances at Rory. "Anyway, since Jess's manners obviously haven't improved any since I last saw him…" he extends his hand "…hi, I'm Matt, his room-mate-slash-business-partner."

She laughs and shakes his hand. "Rory."

"Hi, Rory" he smiles, but the smile stalls half-way and his head quickly turns to Jess, his eyes narrowing. "Rory?"

"It's kind of a weird name, I know," Rory says. "It's actually short for Lorelei, which is not much better, and since it's also my mom's name, I've always sort of gone by Rory."

Jess clears his throat, then scratches his head and quickly moves into the kitchen. "Beer?"

"Yeah…but I think I'll get my own," Matt looks back to Rory. "Excuse me… he doesn't open bottles very well," he says quickly. Rory chuckles and sits down; Matt gives her another glance then turns on the tv before he bolts after Jess.

"Rory?" he spits out as he corners Jess by the fridge.

Jess hands him a beer. "I can't open bottles well? That's the best you could come up with?"

"Do you want me punch you? Trust me, the urge is there and you're all but asking for it," Matt warns.

Jess rolls his eyes. "I'm quickly changing my mind about that 'good to see you, Matt' bit."

"Oh, really? Whereas I'm thrilled about what I've just seen," Matt grits out. "Rory? Do you have a death wish or something?"

Jess thrusts the beer bottle in Matt's hand. "We're not having this conversation now," he says flatly and tries to sidestep his friend, but Matt grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. "Do you really expect me to walk back in there and act all normal? Up until two months ago, Chris and I used to throw darts at her picture that we hooked up on the dashboard!"

Jess frowns. "Her picture? Up until a moment ago, you had no idea what she looked like!"

Matt rolls his eyes. "So it was a drawing, but that's beside the point!"

Jess stares at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing. "Somehow that's really disturbing yet weirdly endearing at the same time. You two need professional help."

"Right, we're the demented ones," Matt throws his hands up in frustration.

Jess moves past him quickly and sticks his head around the wall into the living room. "Rory, you want something?"

"Whatever you have is fine," she calls back and gives him a curious look; he just shrugs and shakes his head before he returns to the fridge, Matt still glaring next to it.

"It's my life, just give it a rest," Jess says as he pulls another beer out of the fridge.

Matt crosses his hands on his chest and the glare grows fiercer. "Yeah well, it just so happens that your life is my life to a considerable extent, and there are parts of my-your-our life that I'd rather not relive, and they're all related to… the devil-woman in there! I'm surprised she's not sprouting little horns and waving a pitchfork!"

"Okay, are you hearing yourself? Because you're way out there, even for you, and that's saying a lot," Jess points out and shuts the fridge. Matt opens his mouth, but Jess cuts him off quickly. "No, we're done. Seriously, we're not having this conversation now, not while she's here. And she's staying for the night, so get a grip and get your ass in there." He stares Matt down sternly and moves around him, but stops in mid-step and faces him again. "Look," he sighs, "I know it's a lot to ask and I swear, tomorrow, after she goes off to work, you can give me the ear-full that you're clearly choking on right now, but for tonight, just go out there and try not to act like she's... evil personified, okay?"

Matt frowns and stares at him stubbornly; Jess rolls his eyes. "Please?"

Matt throws his hands up in defeat and shakes his head. "Fine. But for the record, I hate her guts, and right now, you're not my favorite person either," he says icily, grabs his beer and marches back into the living room. Jess takes a breath and follows, bracing himself.

The tv is on but Rory's not in front of it, so they make their way to the terrace. She lifts her eyes from her book as they appear, and takes her beer from Jess. "There was nothing on," she says, nodding towards the living room, "although I watched seven different commercials for various detergents over the course of five minutes, and it seems I need them all if I want to keep all my clothes clean and well preserved, which by extension means I need a bathroom that surpasses my kitchen in size in order to have enough space for them all."

"If you think commercials mess with your head, steer clear of the shopping channel," Matt warns with a sigh as he settles on the bench next to her. "Last week I landed on one as I was flipping through channels, and ended up ordering a wonder-mop and a set of ultra-sharp kitchen knives. I've never mopped anything in my life, and I almost lost two fingers just unpacking the knives, but for some reason, I thought I couldn't live without either the mop or the knives while I was ordering them." He shakes his head. "I swear, there must be some kind of hidden signal in that shopping channel that makes you lose your mind completely when you watch the bloody thing."

Jess smirks. "Just goes to show you have no self control."

Matt makes a face. "Yes, thank you, you're clearly the zen one here..."

"Matt's right. Those things are dangerous," Rory chuckles. "My mom has a closet at home designated for her shopping channel binges. At one point, we had three different juicers in there, all of which she bought in one night."

"Lorelei is a textbook example of no self control, if there ever was one," Jess laughs. "She'll buy anything, as long as it's fluffy, or purrs, or looks cute."

"Listen to the sensei, grasshopper," Matt chuckles.

Rory frowns at Jess, but he just shrugs. "You know it's true."

She does, and so she just smiles and moves on. "So Matt, how's everything at Truncheon? Are you guys busy?"

He shrugs. "Pretty busy. For some incomprehensible reason, the various Philadelphia papers like us, so the events we do get pretty good coverage, even though it's usually buried somewhere on page sixty-five, but apparently it's a popular page so we get a quite a bit of business. There's always something going on, we're booked pretty good so there's always something to do…" he glances at Jess" ...and since it's just Chris and me over there now, sometimes it's a bit overwhelming."

"Hey, I still do my part," Jess frowns.

"I know you do, sweetheart, don't get your underwear in a twist," Matt chuckles. "It's unbelievable, but he's more efficient from another continent," he says to Rory, then looks back at Jess. "I just meant we miss your profound spiritual guidance and superb organizational skills, not to mention your flare for drama."

Rory chuckles. "Never quite figured you for a drama queen, Jess."

"Oh, you should have seen some of the entrances he'd made during those last few months before he came over here and turned into a hermit," Matt says casually. "They really spiced up the atmosphere."

Jess throws him a murderous look, but says nothing; if it doesn't go any further than this, he can take it. Matt just smiles slightly and looks back to Rory.

"How about you? What do you do?"

"I'm a journalist," Rory says.

"How did you end up over here?" Matt asks.

"Exchange," she says. "They asked me if I wanted to go, I did, and now I'm here for a year."

"How does that work? Do you get to pick where you want to go?" Matt asks, glancing at Jess again; Jess just sips his beer and smiles.

"It was either Dublin or Bruxelles, and I thought Dublin would be a little easier." She shrugs. "No language barrier."

"And, how is it? Do you regret coming?"

She shakes her head. "No. I'm at the strongest paper in the country, so the work is pretty interesting. It's different, it's new, so it's fun," she smiles. "I'm not complaining."

"And let's not forget, you also get the benefit of Jess's spiritual guidance and, what was it, organizational skills?" Matt smirks at his friend.

Rory smiles at Jess. "Don't forget the drama."

Matt looks at her closely. "Oh, I won't," he shifts his gaze to Jess again. "Probably ever."

Something doesn't quite feel right, and Rory looks from one to the other carefully, suddenly feeling like there are two conversations going on here, one of which she's completely left out of. Her confusion shows on her face and Jess catches it – he just smirks slightly and winks at her, and she gives him a small smile before she looks back at Matt.

"If you guys are so busy over there, how come you left? Chris will be swamped," Jess asks, frowning.

Matt laughs out loud. "Inventory," he says.

Jess chuckles, shaking his head. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Matt shrugs, grinning and Jess turns to Rory. "This guy will do anything to get out of inventory. We do it once about every six months, and it's amazing what he'll come up with to get out of it. Last time, he painted spots all over his face, proclaimed he had the measles and locked himself in his room for a week. Before that, he drove to New York, supposedly for a meeting, then called in claiming he was mugged and his car was stolen and he had to stay in New York to look at mug-shots and line-ups for two days." He laughs. "Visiting your mom? You're losing your touch. Does Chris even know where you are?"

Matt laughs. "You won't believe it, but this time, it was actually an extremely fortunate set of circumstances, none of which were my doing. Mom called just as Chris put the sign up and closed shop for a week. She had already bought the ticket so he just yelled until he turned blue but there was nothing he could do about it."

Jess narrows his eyes. "Your mom bought the ticket? But she didn't get a direct flight, she just figured she's send you to Dublin to see me first?" He smirks. "How very thoughtful of her."

"You know, it really was," Matt smirks back. Jess just shakes his head and laughs.

"Why do you hate inventory so much?" Rory asks, bewildered.

Matt gapes at her. "Are you serious?"

Jess laughs. "She is. Rory has a disturbing passion for lists. Making them, filling them, checking them off, crossing them out…"

"I'll remember that the next time Chris shows up with that ghastly little notebook of his and that psychotic inventory look in his eyes," Matt chuckles. "Maybe if I bring a replacement, he'll let me get out of it." He finishes his beer, then stretches, yawning. "I think I'm done." He stands up and looks at Jess pointedly. "Do we need to discuss the sleeping arrangements?"

Jess looks at Rory briefly, but she just stares at her feet. "The couch is all yours," he says to Matt, and endures another glare, but doesn't flinch. "You know where everything is," Jess continues. "I'll be there in a minute to tuck you in," he smirks.

"That just makes me tingle all over," Matt sneers at him, then turns to Rory. "Good night, Rory. In case you have no experience in the matter, be warned that he likes to kick in his sleep. If he gets too rambunctious, feel free to come and get me, I'll happily kick his ass."

She smiles. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

Matt disappears into the apartment, and Jess moves out of the chair and joins Rory on the bench.

"He's.. colorful," she says and looks at him curiously.

He sips his beer and nods. "He's Matt," he smirks.

She frowns. "Meaning?"

"Meaning he can't help being colorful," Jess sighs.

"Is there something I'm missing here?" she asks plainly.

He looks at her briefly then smiles. "Maybe. But don't worry about it, it's not a big deal."

"You're sure?"

He smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'm very sure."

"It's nice of him to come and see you," she says with a smile.

"Yeah," he agrees, then smirks at her. "Although his timing sucks."

She laughs. "True. But maybe it's just as well."

He studies her for a moment. "So, are you okay with this?" he asks softly.

"Am I okay with what?"

"Me, you," he smirks, pointing into the apartment, "that bed."

"I have no problem with that bed," she smiles. "I slept great the last time I was in there."

"Yeah, but you had it all to yourself then," he points out.

She chuckles. "Should I be worried about that kicking Matt mentioned? And as far as that goes," she laughs, "what exactly are your sleeping arrangements at Truncheon like? Seeing as Matt seems to have a rather intimate knowledge of your sleeping habits?"

Jess laughs out loud, then smirks at her. "He's actually afraid of the dark so sometimes he crawls in bed with me."

"Well then, leave a light on for him because he better not try that tonight," Rory warns. "I don't like strangers creeping in my bed in the middle of the night."

"I think you'll be safe enough," he smirks. "Unless it's not just Matt you're worried about."

There's a subtle change in his voice and she looks at him; there's genuine concern in his eyes and suddenly delicate tingles run down her spine as she realizes that she's really about to be in bed with him. She's about to sleep with Jess, in his bed, next to him, close enough to touch and to feel; right on cue, the image of him in those pajama bottoms flashes through her mind and she suddenly hates the fact they have a chaperone with surprising force. As the thought runs through her mind, she suddenly detects a change in his eyes as well; some of her feelings seem to be mirrored there and he's doing a poor job of hiding them. He's actually not trying to hide them at all, he's well beyond that, and at the moment, he'd be willing to kick Matt out on his ass without a second thought. He knows it will be a new kind of torture, this sleeping with her but not really sleeping with her, and the idea of having to restrain from touching her seems like an impossible mission and the fact that her eyes show the same thing just makes it all that much worse.

She smiles that sweet smile of hers. "I'm not worried," she says softly, and his breath catches. He should have made her sleep on the couch. At least sleeping with Matt would actually be sleeping, and not an exercise in self control.

A noise comes from the living room and Rory looks over her shoulder. "You should go and… tuck him in," she chuckles. "And while you're at it, warn him to stay where he is."

Jess smirks and stands up. "Are you finished with that?" he points to her bottle. She nods and hands it to him. "You want another one?" he asks as he picks up the remaining two bottles.

"I'll share one with you," she smiles, and he nods, disappearing in the doorway.

Matt is sprawled on the sofa, under a blanket, flipping through channels, ignoring Jess as he walks to the kitchen where he leaves the empty bottles on the counter and gets a new one from the fridge. He opens it and walks back to the living room and leans over the armchair next to the sofa.

"Thanks for being civil to her," he says as he plays with the bottle, "although you couldn't resist being an ass to me along the way."

Matt looks at him. "You're an idiot, Jess," he says flatly.

"You're probably right," Jess says. "But thanks anyway."

Matt shuts off the tv and turns away, pulling the blanket over himself; Jess looks at him a long moment before he returns to the terrace.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	16. Shhhhhhh

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

**IMPORTANT NOTE**:**This chapter is rated M.  
I've split the update in two to accomodate those who may not want to read M rated content. If that's you, feel free to skip this chapter and move on to the next; there are no crucial plot points you will miss :)  
**

* * *

**16. Shhhhhhhh…**

There's a full moon outside; the stars shine bright and clear in the small patch of sky that's visible through the window, and Rory feels curiously calm as she watches them from the bed, twinkling in the distance, tiny, unassuming and pale. The calmness is temporary, she knows that, it will only last as long as the shower runs in the bathroom; once the water stops, the tingles will return. The bathroom door will open and her heart will start to race again, picking up speed as his footsteps sound on the floor, until it jumps into her throat when he appears behind the shelf. What will happen from that moment on, she has no idea, but none of that is here yet – for now, there are just the stars and the serenity.

She'd done the bathroom bit half an hour ago; as promised, he'd found her some makeshift pajamas and then laughed as he watched her trip over the pant legs that are much too long for her. She'd made it to the bed somehow and listened to the bathroom door close behind him, listened to the shower start, listened to the church bell beat midnight in the distance and then she found the stars, and she's been staring at them ever since.

The door rattles softly and the creaking of the floorboards grows louder; Rory turns away from the window just as he rounds the bookshelf, the faint scent of aftershave preceding him. Once again, there's no shirt and she tries not to stare, but suddenly remembers he can't really see if she's staring or not, and so she examines every shape and curve shamelessly before he opens a drawer and pulls on a shirt.

"Matt's really out-doing himself tonight," he says quietly as he moves towards the bed. "I've heard him snore before, but this is above and beyond anything I've ever witnessed."

Rory chuckles. "I didn't even notice until you mentioned it."

"Then your hearing is seriously impaired," he smirks as he pulls on a blanket. "The vibrations are cracking the ceiling paint."

She smiles, and he hugs his pillow, settling on his side. Their eyes connect silently and they lay still for a moment, facing each other in the moonlight. Her eyes are bright but somehow darker in the pale light, and the cascade of hair frames her face on the pillow; it smells like coconut and feels like silk when he wraps a stray strand around his finger.

"Hi," he says in a soft, husky voice that instantly makes her skin bristle and her mouth dry.

"Hi," she echoes, her voice cracking to a whisper; she finds his hand on the pillow and entwines her fingers with his. He examines her face carefully as he runs his thumb in lazy circles over her palm; her eyes close and her lips curve upwards as a smile settles on her face. He wants to kiss her, but he hesitates, suddenly very aware of Matt. While he's busy silently cursing Matt's presence again, she catches him completely by surprise when she moves and her mouth finds his with a light touch and baited breath, as if she's afraid he'll vanish if she overdoes it. Her hand curls in his hair as her tongue darts against his lips in a slow caress; his mind shuts down instantly and he captures her mouth softly, his hand sneaking around her as he pulls her closer against himself. She melts into him quickly, easily, and with her comes a surge of heat that spreads through him like a wildfire; his hand creeps down her back and over her hips, and he firmly matches them to his own, sliding his leg between hers. Instantly, her mouth moves against his with more urgency and her pull on his hair intensifies; her hips move against his leg and a small whimper rises from her throat. His blood boils at the sound, and he pushes down on the small of her back; the whimper turns into a moan and she moves against him with more force, her breath catching against his lips.

"Stop," she breathes, "we have to stop this, right now."

"I don't want to," he murmurs against her lips. "I want to hear you make that sound again," he whispers.

She opens her eyes, withdrawing. "Matt's right there, remember?"

"Yeah, snoring up a storm. He's dead to the world, just forget about him…" He slides his hand up her leg, but she takes hold of it and brings it up to the pillow between them.

"In a minute, I would have been waking up the dead, trust me," she smiles. "Even Matt wouldn't be able to sleep through that."

"God, I hate him," he sighs.

"You don't hate him," Rory chuckles, "and he'll be gone soon enough."

He groans, frowning. "Gone, yes," he agrees, "but definitely not soon enough."

She smiles. "Come on," she kisses him softly. "Let's just sleep."

He trails his finger down her face and across her lips. "Okay," he sighs regretfully. "Turn around."

She smiles then does as he asked, settling her back against his chest. He wraps his hand around her and draws her further into him, until every shape and curve of her fits into just the right place. They're sharing his pillow now and she can feel his breath in her hair, blowing softly against her ear, making goose bumps rush down her skin. His hand is heavy on her, but she loves the weight, she loves the intimacy it brings, and even though she tries to direct her mind away from it, she loves the warmth that spreads from his palm in heated little waves, washing over her lazily.

Suddenly, the hand moves; slowly but purposefully, it travels lower until it reaches the hem of her shirt, then sneaks back up under it to rest on her stomach, palm open and fingers stretched across her skin. For a second, he's still, but in the next one, he begins to explore the new territory, roaming from side to side, then circling around her navel. The new sensation is all-consuming, and for a moment she forgets everything but the trail that his hand leaves on her skin; he makes another lazy circle around her stomach then drifts up, trailing his fingers over her ribs before his hand glides further, gently making its way between her breasts before it rests above her chest idly. Her heart thumps wildly under his palm, and she weakly thinks they should stop, but before she can get the words out, he finds a small patch of skin in between her hair and her ear and leaves a trail of moist kisses down to her neck.

Her breath catches and panic washes over her as she feels the control of the situation slipping away from her quickly, but she tilts her head anyway; it's all the encouragement he needs and the hand on her chest moves quickly and closes around her breast, palm gently grazing her nipple. She gasps, arching her back; the sound blows his mind and he quickly sneaks his other arm under her, fighting the shirt along the way. In between the hands and the lips and the mayhem they're causing within her, it becomes impossible to keep track of what he's doing and where; it all pools in one place anyway, and as she clutches at the blanket, the last coherent thought in her head is that it's not a question of if anymore, but a question of when, and although it won't take much, it will still take a little more than what he's giving her at the moment. Jess picks up on this easily; he's had more than enough practice to recognize the signs, and he slides his right hand down her slowly until he reaches the place where he knows she needs him to be right now.

She pushes against his hand, searching for that one critical point of contact; nuzzling at her neck and gently playing with her nipple, he lets her set the pace and the angle before he moves his fingers against her. A full-fledged moan escapes her this time; he tenses for a moment, listening towards the sofa, but the rhythm of Matt's snoring is undisturbed; yet another, louder moan follows, and even though Jess would gladly give up a kidney for the chance to make her scream, right now that's just not an option. He stills for a moment and she whimpers softly in protest.

"Shhhhhh," he breathes into her ear, and she nods quickly, impatient for him to move again. He finally does, and her breath hitches; another moan threatens to escape and she hides her face in the pillow, stifling the whimpers as she shudders against his hand a minute later. He holds on to her after she stills, looking at her with wide eyes, thinking that nothing he's ever seen comes anywhere close to what he just experienced – in so many ways, it was better than any sex he'd ever had. With his free hand, he moves her hair out of the way and gently kisses her temple, brushing the dampness away as he waits for her eyes to open.

She takes her time before she looks at him, and when she does, it's with hazy eyes and a dreamlike expression. Her smile is slow in coming and accompanied by a soft blush, and it strikes him as the sweetest, precious thing, this scarlet tinge on her cheeks that hints at embarrassment. She looks like a sixteen year old girl again, and somehow, it suits her, and he suddenly wants to believe that look on her face is for him alone and he doesn't want anyone else to know it, ever.

She rolls on her back in a fluid, catlike motion, and he props his head against his hand and smirks at her.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" he asks, an impish sparkle in his eyes.

"I think you have that backwards," she smiles.

He shakes his head, smiling back. "Believe me, I don't."

She blushes again, but looks at him playfully. "If that's true, then technically, you owe me one," she beams at him.

He laughs softly. "I guess I do."

"I mean, it's only fair to let me have it as good as you did," she says with feigned innocence.

He smirks. "That does sound fair."

"So, when are you going to make it up to me?" she asks, playing with the hem of his pants.

He laughs again, then takes her hand and kisses her palm. "As soon as the sleeping beauty over there is en route to Scotland," he says with a smirk. "I'm afraid I don't have your self-control when it comes to keeping quiet."

"Excuses," she chuckles, then stifles a yawn, and he smiles as he watches her fight to keep her eyes open.

"Come on," he says softly, "let's sleep." He lets his hand drop and settles on his side again, gently nudging her to do the same. "Turn around."

She does, and he wraps his arm around her again, boldly bypassing the shirt this time. "I think we've done this already," she chuckles.

"I promise, this is as far as I'll go," he murmurs into her ear.

She smiles silently and entwines her fingers with his; she lays perfectly still for a few minutes, feeling his chest rise and fall behind her in a calm, soothing rhythm.

"Jess," she calls gently.

"Hmm?" he groans.

"That was amazing," she whispers. "Just in case you were wondering."

He doesn't say anything, he just holds her tighter. Her eyes drift to the window again and the stars seem closer somehow, like they're actually within her reach. Over her shoulder, Jess is looking at them too, thinking that maybe they finally are perfectly aligned.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	17. Simple truths

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**17. Simple truths**

Rory is long gone and the sun is high in the sky when Jess wakes up; he finds the shirt she slept in on the pillow next to him and pulls it over his head to block out the sunlight. It smells like her and the scent brings back last night and he smiles into the shirt as he relives the way she felt and tasted, but curiously, he spends the most time picturing that look on her face, the one with the lazy smile and dreamy eyes, and just like last night, there's a strange desire to keep it for himself and never let anyone else see it.

He snaps out of the daydream as a loud clatter comes from the kitchen, followed by a crash and the sound of glass breaking; then comes the muttered cursing and Jess suddenly feels like he's back at Truncheon and it's Matt's turn to wash dishes. He groans and fits a pillow on top of the shirt, then listens to the sound of sweeping followed by creaks of floorboards as Matt thuds by the bed on his way to the terrace. As a strong smell of coffee drifts towards him, Jess is quickly reminded of Matt's one redeeming quality and he's suddenly motivated to get up, knowing that even though it's probably not going to be a very pleasant morning, the coffee will be great.

He wanders to the kitchen and finds the pot is full and steaming; he pours a mug-full and walks out on the terrace. Matt is in the chair so he takes the bench, and for a while they both just stare ahead blindly and sip their coffees slowly, and suddenly Jess finds himself missing Truncheon and the mornings there.

"Okay, let me have it," he smirks, glancing at Matt, but he just stares ahead and says nothing.

"Is this a I-just-woke-up-so-leave-me-alone thing, or are you actually sulking?" Jess tries again.

"What do you want me to say?" Matt asks dully.

Jess shrugs. "I don't know, whatever it is that you wanted to say yesterday."

"I've said it all," Matt replies.

"You said I was an idiot, that was pretty much it," Jess reminds him.

Matt shrugs. "That sums it up nicely."

Jess laughs. "Really? I'm disappointed. You used to be so much more eloquent when it came to ranting."

Finally, Matt looks at him, and Jess stops laughing immediately.

"What are you doing, Jess?" Matt frowns at him. "Are you seriously going to do this again?"

The question makes Jess squirm, but he doesn't show it. "You make it sound like I'm suicidal or something," he says with a ghost of a smirk.

"No, just stupid," Matt snaps back quickly. "It's amazing, really, how with all that brains you are such a complete moron when it comes to her."

"It's not such a big deal," Jess says, annoyed.

"Oh really?" Matt laughs sarcastically, "since when?"

Jess frowns at him. "Has it occurred to you that maybe I know what I'm doing?"

"No, it hasn't. It has occurred to me, however, that maybe in this particular instance, you're just thinking with little Jess down there, instead of one up here. I'm actually hanging a lot of hope on that being true, and if it is, then fine. I still think it's a really bad idea, but if that's all it is, I can live with that, and we're done here."

Jess throws him a murderous look and Matt shrugs. "Okay, so that's a no," he says tartly.

"You know, I appreciate the sentiment and all, but you're taking this interest in my life a little too far," Jess bites back.

"Hey, considering how many times I've had to drag your puking ass around Philadelphia, or be on the receiving end of angry punches delivered by various jealous boyfriends, not to mention bailing you out of jails, I think I've earned the right to tell you you're an idiot if I see you acting like one!"

Jess looks away and Matt laughs. "Oh, you've forgotten about those little gems, have you? Well, let's review," he sneers. "Where should I start? The drinking? The destruction of public property? The destruction of our property? The fights? The –"

"Is there a point to all of this?" Jess cuts him off coldly.

"Yes, there's a bloody point!" Matt yells at him. "I'm not doing that again!"

"No one is asking you to!" Jess shouts back," I didn't ask you to do it the first time around!" As soon as the words are out, he regrets them and takes a breath. "Look –"

"Forget it, I know you didn't mean it," Matt says simply. "What the hell is it with you and this girl, Jess? It makes no sense, there's other women in this world, why can't you just zero in on one of those? It comes easy enough for you, you barely have to look at them and they fall in line…" He shakes his head. "What the hell is it about this one that makes you always go back to her, even though she always ends up making you miserable?"

Jess shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe she's the right one."

"Oh please," Matt rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that soulmate crap."

Jess jumps up from the bench and leans against the railing, frustrated. This conversation is ridiculous on so many levels, the most obvious one being that he's jumping down Matt's throat for saying things that Jess himself knows are true, that he's been going back and forth over for the last two weeks. Everything Matt's said, he's said to himself a million times; everything Matt's thinking right now, he's thought as well. On some level, he still does, which makes the whole thing even more ludicrous. How the hell is he supposed to explain it all to Matt, when he doesn't really understand it himself?

"She just gets me," he finally says, running his hands over his face.

"Oh, I know she does," Matt remarks bitterly. "She knows you really well, she knows exactly how to rip you to shreds. It's no small talent, I'll give her that."

Jess rolls his eyes."Can you lay off of that for a just a minute?" Matt looks rebellious, and Jess frowns at him. "If this is about you lashing out, then I'll just shut up now and please, take your best shot and get it over with, but if you're actually looking for answers, I suggest you zip it and listen while I'm in the mood to deliver them."

Matt puts his coffee down and crosses his hands on his chest. "Fine. Let's hear it."

"I love the attitude," Jess deadpans.

"Hey, this is the best I can give you," Matt shrugs. "So, she gets you. I get you too, but I doubt you'd go around the bend if I dumped your ass."

Jess can't help a smirk. "It's not the same."

"Well, okay, she's got the girly parts. Other than that…." Matt mumbles.

Jess shakes his head. "That's not what I mean. She gets me like no one else does, and she was the first one who ever did. She somehow knew things about me before I did. The person that _you_ get, me, the way I am right now, who I am, it has a lot to do with her. Me writing, that's all her." Matt looks sceptical and Jess runs his hands over his face and sighs. "I can't explain it to you any better. If it never happened to you, there's no way you can really understand what I'm talking about."

Matt frowns at him, mulling this new information over, then shakes his head. "Okay, fine, even if that's true – and the only reason I didn't dismiss it the moment it came out of your mouth is because you're typically not the sappy type, even though you're laying it on pretty thick –"

"Thanks, who knew you were so gracious," Jess interjects cynically.

"- even if it's true," Matt continues, "all of that was a million years ago. Fine, be grateful for the… spiritual guidance, intellectual break-through, whatever it was she helped you achieve, but you know, why can't you do it from a safe distance? And I mean miles, hundreds of them."

Jess shrugs. "Because the miles aren't there, Matt. And even when they were, it didn't make much of a difference."

Matt frowns and points a finger at him. "Hey, they did make a difference. Chances are, if she wasn't here right now – and on a side note, how the hell she ended up here of all places just blows my mind – but if she wasn't here right now, if she didn't turn up here, none of this would be happening."

"Maybe not," Jess concedes, "but I'm pretty sure it would have happened eventually."

Matt gapes at him, bewildered. "What the hell does that mean? Are you going to mention destiny now? Seriously?"

Jess groans and slumps back into the bench. "Look," he says exasperatedly, "I've been over all of this with myself a million times, I've been back and forth then back again, I've rehashed it and then rehashed it again, and you're right – given everything that's happened, it seems beyond stupid. But –"

"Oh crap," Matt rolls his eyes. "And you started out so good."

Jess smirks slightly, and bows his head, running his hands through his hair. Matt looks at him and waits, but Jess just stares at the floor, unsure if he can let the words come out of his mouth, unsure if he can let himself hear them.

"But what?" Matt pushes, and Jess looks up at him with a resigned look in his eyes.

"But I can't let it go," he says abruptly. "I can't let it go," he repeats, enunciating every word. "I just can't do it, and I don't want to. I don't want to because, all the wreckage aside, for the short while back there, when we were kids, I was happier than I ever was before or after that, and while it's true that she can make me miserable like no one else can, she also makes me happy like no one else does."

Matt stares at him, speechless, and Jess smirks, shrugging. "It's just that simple," he says plainly, and finally, he realizes that it really is.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	18. Strangers

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**18. Strangers**

Rory wears a silly smile all day at work. She can't help it, it's stuck on her face for the day, much like the thoughts of the night before are stuck in her head, swirling around her mind in a wonderful whirlwind that makes her giggle in one moment and blush in the next. The giggles come when she remembers the things he said, the blush when she remembers the things he did, but more than that, when she remembers what she did. That was a first, letting go the way she did with Matt just on the other side of that bookcase, and she laughs to herself when it occurs to her that last night was probably the closest she would ever get to a threesome.

She doesn't need one anyway, because Jess clearly knows what he's doing, maybe even too well. She's had it great with Logan, but it doesn't even come close to the way Jess made her feel; on the first try and within barely five minutes, she was so far gone that she didn't care in the slightest that there was another living, breathing (although snoring) person in the room with them. It was unprecedented, and if someone had told her a month ago this would happen, she would have deemed them a lunatic and advise some serious therapy. And it was just… a trailer, for lack of a better word, and she has yet to see the movie itself.

The phone on her desk chirps and she regretfully wrenches her mind back to reality; the display says 'Lobby', and she picks up the handset. "Rory Gilmore," she says cheerfully.

"Ms Gilmore, there's a gentleman here to see you," a pleasant voice says. "Should I send him up?"

Rory's heart leaps and she can't help a grin. "No, I'll come down, thanks," she replies and hangs up the phone. She grins wider and grabs her bag. She was about to go and get a coffee anyway, and she nearly trips over the waste basket as she rushes towards the stairs, then reminds herself not to run down them. A person just doesn't run down the stairs in an office building.

As she enters the lobby two minutes later, something feels strange; she can't quite put her finger on it until she realizes she doesn't know where to look for him, and that's peculiar because her eyes usually just find him immediately whenever he's within her field of vision. Not this time, and she frowns and looks around inquisitively, half-wondering why her instincts failed her.

"Rory," a voice comes from behind her, and she whirls around, startled.

"Matt," she gawks at him, then catches herself and smiles. "Hi, and please excuse the ogling, you just… caught me by surprise."

He just nods and gives her a puzzling look. "Do you have a minute?"

_Strange_, she thinks, but smiles again. "Sure. I was just about to get a coffee. There's a Starbucks next door, how's that?"

He looks hesitant. "Crowded," he finally says. "How about you get it to go? I'll wait across the street," he points to a bench in the park.

_Again, strange_, but from what she's seen of him so far, he's pretty atypical, so maybe it's really not that strange in his universe. "Sure," she shrugs, and they make their way out of the building. He crosses the street and wanders into the park where he installs himself on a bench and waits for her.

Rory returns five minutes later with two paper-cups, and she hands him one as she sits next to him.

"I didn't know what you'd like, so I just got you a classic," she says apologetically. He takes the coffee somewhat reluctantly and she can't help a chuckle. "You don't have to drink it, I won't be offended; I'll just take it up with me when I go and finish it later."

An uncertain smile escapes him. "Right, you're a coffee junkie… Jess mentioned that."

She shrugs, smiling. "It's the genes, I can't help it," she says brightly then looks at him quizzically. "Did Jess send you here?"

Matt laughs, but it's a weird kind of laugh, unsettling somehow. "No," he shakes his head and stares into the cup. She waits for him to continue, because it somehow seems he should say something more, and when he doesn't, she's suddenly at a loss as to how to behave. She wants to ask what he's doing here, but somehow she feels that would be… impolite, so she just sits there and sips her coffee, feeling slightly out of place.

"What are you doing?" he suddenly asks, and the question startles her.

"Umm… sitting on a bench, drinking coffee, thinking you're being awfully quiet," she offers cautiously and looks at him carefully.

He frowns, shaking his head. "No," he says firmly. "Jess. What are you doing with Jess?"

Her breath skips as it suddenly dawns on her – this is not a social call, this is… an intervention, and suddenly the harsh look in his eyes makes sense. Her chest constricts and she grips her coffee tighter as the puzzle pieces fall into place, and she realizes Matt is… Lane, Lane screaming at Jess when he bought a car after crashing Rory's, only Matt's reason for glaring at her now is infinitely more justified. Matt was there to pick up the pieces after the Truncheon debacle, and now that she knows just how much of a wreckage there was to deal with, she's pretty certain he probably hates her guts. Who could blame him, really? She drops her eyes to her coffee and suddenly wishes the ground would just open up and swallow her.

"I mean, if you're just yanking his chain again, I'd appreciate a heads-up, just to prepare myself… you know, check out the various rehab clinics and AA groups, stock up on first aid kits, start saving for a therapist, stuff like that," he says acidly and her head jerks up violently.

"I'm not… yanking… anything," she snaps at him. "I never did."

His eyebrows lift. "Really? Well, he felt yanked, somehow. More like floored, actually."

She looks away. "I'm not sure it's any of your business anyway."

"Well, it is," he says flatly. "It is because when you're finished with him, I'll be the one that's left picking up the pieces, and frankly, once was enough. I'd rather not repeat the experience, and with your track record, everything points to another catastrophe."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she says coldly.

He laughs and sets the coffee down, crossing his hands on his chest. "Really? Let's see… I know that at that point when you came to Truncheon, he would have done anything for you, even though I'll admit I have no clue why. I know he went to Hartford because he wanted to deliver that book to you personally – again, no clue why. I know – and I'm not listing these in chronological order, but if you're having difficulties following, I'm willing to backtrack if necessary... " He looks at her with raised eyebrows but she just glares at him, so he shrugs and continues. "I know he told you he loved you, and I'm pretty sure he's never said that to anyone before or since. And finally, I know you've done an excellent job of stomping all over him this way or that on all those occasions." He leans forward. "Now, feel free to tell me which part I have wrong."

The list is horrible to hear but not entirely fair either, and this makes her angry; he's outlined all her mistakes meticulously, but there's no mention of Jess's. "I will tell you that in all your expertise, you're missing quite a few parts of the story. Clearly, Jess is a saint in your head, and that makes you delusional. He's screwed things up too," she snaps at him.

"Yes, I'm sure the I love you part scarred you for life," he sneers.

She closes her eyes and takes a breath, counting to ten and fighting the urge to slap him in the face. "Let me just fill in a few gaps for you, when you're asking so nicely," she bites back. "For instance, did you know that he left _me_?" A look of disbelief crosses Matt's face and Rory's eyes narrow. "Oh, I see that's news for you, how shocking! He did, he left me first , he didn't say goodbye, he didn't say where he was going, he didn't call, or write, he didn't do anything, he just - vanished. "She pauses and takes a breath."If that means he loved me, he chose a really screwed-up way to show it. It crushed me, completely, but I can see you're hell-bent on thinking I'm completely devoid of emotions, so I won't bore you with the details that you're not going to believe anyway," she says flatly.

Matt looks uncertain for a second, but he shakes it off quickly. "It was a million years ago, he was a kid."

She jumps up from the bench. "So was I!", she yells. "And it hurt a lot more because of that! God, you should have known him back then, because the version you got is far more mature then the one that I dated! He was reckless and irresponsible and rebelling against everything and everyone, and even though I loved him for it, it also scared me to death! "

Matt shrugs, but his expression is softer when he looks at her. "So he was a dumbass. He's not one anymore."

"Thanks for the newsflash," she quips cynically. "Although, when he chose to list all my mistakes, it would have been nice if he'd included a few of his own."

Matt laughs. "Wow, clearly, you don't know him as well as you think you do." She looks at him suspiciously, and he shakes his head. "Come on, Rory, can you actually imagine Jess talking about this to anyone? "

She can't, and she frowns at him. "So, then you're a mind-reader or something?"

"No," he says, and she raises her eyebrows at him; he hesitates for a moment then shrugs his shoulders. "He just used to drink a lot. And then talk a lot. I doubt he remembers any of it."

Rory looks away. Matt studies her for a moment, but his eyes narrow quickly and he frowns. "So is that your thing? All that crap you put him through, that was some twisted payback for something he'd done a million years ago?"

She stares at him briefly, then lets her hands fall down her sides in defeat. "This is pointless," she says blandly. "Why don't you just tell me what it is that you want to hear so that I can say it and we can get this over with."

He stands up and walks over to her. "I want to know what's in your head. I want to you to tell me why you're doing what you're doing. If you're just playing, I want to know."

She laughs bitterly, looking up at him. "Why waste breath? You won't believe me anyway."

"Try me," he says simply, meeting her eyes.

The staring contest goes on, and Rory thinks about what he's asking. She wants to set him straight, but at the same time, she resents discussing this with him. It's really none of his business, and she doesn't know him at all, not to mention the fact that he's completely infuriating. Suddenly a new thought enters her head and it chills her to the bone.

"Does Jess know you're here?" she asks firmly.

Matt laughs. "Are you serious? He'd probably never forgive me if he knew I did this."

She exhales, but her eyebrows knit together. "Are you asking me not to tell him?"

"I'm not asking for anything," he shrugs. "I'm just telling you how it is. What you choose to do with it is up to you."

She crosses her hands on her chest and looks at him studiously. "Why are you here?"

"Because he's a friend, and I don't have many," he says simply.

She nods and returns to the bench slowly, finding her coffee again. He follows suit and takes the first sip of his, and for a while, they sit in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

"If you're not sure," Matt starts with a sigh, "if you're not really, really sure about what you've started here, you should walk away." Rory looks at him and he continues. "I don't know shit about you, except the fact that Jess has this bizarre fixation on you, he's had it for years, and he was miraculously getting over it when you showed up and messed it all up again." She opens her mouth but he cuts her off. "I'm just saying, if you're not at least half as insane over him as he is over you, just draw a line and go. Now, before you make it any worse, because he doesn't deserve to be clobbered again. And by extension, neither do I," he adds as an afterthought and a smile escapes her.

She shakes her head. "I'm not going anywhere," she says quietly before she looks at her coffee again. "This fixation you mentioned, it goes both ways. It always has," she sighs and shruhs her shoulders. "And maybe you're right, maybe we're completely wrong for each other, and this will blow up in our faces, but this thing between us, it's something I've never felt with anyone, and when it first happened, it was so strong it scared me. Yes, I've done all those things you threw in my face earlier, but it was all just one and the same mistake that I repeated over and over again, and I did it because I was scared." She looks up and looks him straight in the eyes, calmly and with infinite certainty. "I'm not scared anymore."

Matt frowns slightly, but doesn't say anything; he just finishes his coffee and then crumples the cup and throws it across the pathway, aiming for the trash can. It goes straight in.

"Wow, I've never had that happen before," he says, bewildered, before he turns toward her again. "So, you want to come and help me pick out a vase?"

"A what?" Rory asks stupidly, completely unprepared for the shift in both topic and atmosphere.

"A vase," Matt repeats very slowly. "It's sort of like a cup, only usually larger, generally used for keeping flowers, although sometimes they serve a purely decorative purpose."

"I know what a vase is," Rory says indignantly.

His eyebrows lift. "Really? A moment ago, it seemed like you were totally unfamiliar with the concept."

"God, you're as insufferable as Jess," she groans. "No wonder you two get along so well."

"I didn't realize we were dishing out compliments," Matt grins, "and I really suck at that, so I'll refrain." He stands up, stretching. "So, the vase?"

Rory rolls her eyes and stands up slowly, fighting back a smile.

….

Jess hears the door open and looks up from the laptop as Matt enters the apartment, lugging a package nearly half his height, out of breath and sweating.

"Where the hell have you been?" Jess greets him. "I go for a shower, you're sprawled on a chair. I come out five minutes later, and you've vanished." He frowns at the package that knocks over a lamp as Matt hauls it into the living room. "And what the hell is that?"

"No really, I'm good, don't strain yourself or anything," Matt pants as he aims for the coffee table, making Jess duck quickly and pull his laptop out of the way as Matt sets the package down and drops onto the sofa. Jess stares at him, then at the package, then shakes his head and walks to the kitchen where he pulls two beers out of the fridge. He returns to the living room and hands one to Matt.

"Oh bless you," Matt says, reaching for the beer.

"Don't tell me you're moving in," Jess says, pointing towards the box on the table.

Matt shrugs. "It's a gift," he explains.

"For who, Gulliver?" Jess smirks.

"My mom," Matt informs him. "It's her birthday."

"So you got her a closet?"

"It's a vase," Matt sneers.

Jess laughs. "What, she's got a tree she doesn't know what to do with?"

Matt rolls his eyes and turns on the TV. Jess sits down in the armchair, still eyeing the package. "You haven't really thought this through, have you?"

Matt frowns. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you have to get this first to the plane, then on the plane."

Matt pales slightly but shrugs it off. "I'll manage."

Jess laughs, shaking his head, then sips his beer. Matt looks at him from the corner of his eye, then returns to the TV. "So I've been thinking…"

"Oh God, that's always frightening," Jess smirks.

"…about this Rory thing," Matt continues and the smirk on Jess's face fades quickly, replaced by a stern glance and guarded expression. "And you know, if that's what you want, you have my blessing."

Jess bursts out laughing. "Gee, thanks," he says, still grinning. "That's very big of you."

"On a provisional basis," Matt warns.

"Provisional," Jess repeats, smirking.

"Yes, provided that it's not you that screws it up," Matt says flatly. "If she does it, fine – you'll probably make all our lives at Truncheon a living hell again, but we'll survive, clean up your messes, help you lick your wounds, patch you up and whatever else proves necessary to get you out of the pits of depression." He takes another sip of the beer andpoints the bottle at Jess. "But if you screw it up, you're on your own."

Jess looks at him suspiciously. "Is that supposed to be a deterrent of some sort? If it is, I must be missing something," he says lightly.

Matt shrugs. "I'm just saying, if you're determined to go through with this, then do it right; don't shit your pants half-way in, invent a non-existent problem and then run away screaming. Same goes for the scenario when the problem does exist. They're meant to be solved, not avoided." Jess throws him an annoyed look and Matt lifts his eyebrows. "What? Don't give me the glare. It's your classic MO and you know it."

Jess shakes his head but decides to steer clear of this particular discussion. "So, what brought on this sudden change of heart?"

Matt leans forward and reaches for Jess's cigarettes. "These things will kill you," he points out, then lights one.

Jess smirks. "But not you."

"I quit," Matt explains.

"Yeah, I can see that," Jess nods. "So, the change of heart?"

Matt throws the cigarettes back on the table and leans back into the sofa. "I talked to a girl and she said some things," he says with a sigh.

"What girl?" Jess asks, confused.

"She helped me pick out that vase," Matt points to the box.

Jess frowns. "You've discussed my life with a stranger?"

Matt stalls for a moment then smirks. "Actually, yes, she is a stranger."

Jess closes his eyes then bows his head, sighing exasperatedly. "Fine, I'll bite. What did this girl say that was so brilliant?"

Matt looks up and blows hoops of smoke toward the ceiling. "I forget," he says enigmatically, "but it made sense at the time."

Jess looks at him for a moment, then shakes his head in disbelief. "You're insane," he declares with conviction and opens up his laptop again.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	19. Feeling

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**19. Feeling**

Once she returns to work, Rory gets swamped after a government press conference goes hey-wire and seemingly impossible deadlines loom on the horizon. She steals a minute to text Jess and let him know she has no idea when her day will end, but after that, the crazed world of journalism goes into a chaotic spin and she's forced to evict him from her mind. After an afternoon of racing around town, collecting statements and chasing after sources, she manages to finish her story, her editor breathing down her neck, literally ten minutes before the edition closes. As she slumps in her chair, for a moment she wonders why she chose this particular career, but then smiles, remembering she always asks herself that very same question when a deadline draws close and the stress kicks in. The adrenaline subsides slowly, and two things become clear in quick succession – first, she's hungry enough to devour a seven-course dinner two times over, and second, she doubts she would manage to stay awake long enough to reach the third course.

She gathers her jacket and her bag, double-checking for keys, and walks home slowly, checking her phone for time – it's late, and she wonders if she should call Jess. Maybe he's asleep, and she doesn't want to wake him just to say hello, because she's really not up for anything tonight except getting some food into herself and then crawling into bed. The day had gone on forever, and Matt's visit seems like something that happened last week, and not this morning. Glancing at the phone one more time, she decides against calling – she'll text him when she gets home.

She stops by a fast-food place she comes across, and gets what seems like half their menu to go; even as the words come out of her mouth as she orders the food, she's aware she'll never be able to really eat it all, but chooses to ignore that. Maybe she'll surprise herself.

When she enters her building, she's happy to find the light on because her hands are full of food, bag and keys. In an unexpected surge of energy, she climbs up to the first floor quickly; a wide grin spreads across her face when Jess looks up from his book.

"What are you doing here?" she smiles, stopping in front of him.

He stands up from the stairs, stretching. "Just making sure you're not dead or something," he smirks, reaching for the keys that dangle in her hand.

"I _am_ dead, or at least I feel like it," she sighs, and the smirk grows.

"Which one?" Jess asks, lifting the keys; she points and he opens the door. He steps into the darkness and feels around the door-frame for a light switch.

"You'd think it was that simple, but it isn't" she chuckles and walks past him, handing him the bags with the food on the way. She reaches behind a closet and turns on the light. "Sorry about the mess," she calls over her shoulder as she walks into the living room and drops her jacket on the sofa; he follows and she turns around, smiling. "Kitchen," she says as she points to the door on her right, "bedroom, bathroom," she continues, pointing to doors behind her. "That's it, you're all caught up."

He looks around briefly - books, cds, pillows, notebooks, stray pieces of paper everywhere and more books. Yes, the place feels like her. He looks back at the bags in his hands. "This smells like food, so I'm guessing kitchen would be the way to go?"

"Normally, yes," she nods, "but plates and cutlery seem like a lot of work right now, so I'm thinking we just unpack it all right here on the coffee table."

"Makes sense," he agrees and sets the bags down, then peels his jacket off and throws it on top of hers. When he turns around, she's already closing the distance between them and sneaking into his arms.

"Hi," she says sweetly as her arms close around his waist.

"Hi," he smirks and hugs her closer, then kisses her gently before she drops her head on his shoulder.

"I love that you're here," she murmurs against his neck and a quick shiver runs through him.

"So I'm guessing it's been a long day," he smirks into her hair and slowly runs his hand up to her neck, massaging it gently.

"Never-ending," she whines, leaning against him. "I'm tired, I hungry, and I think I smell," she sighs but suddenly tenses against him, and her head shoots up from his shoulder. "Do I?" she asks and looks at him, a hint of panic in her voice as she tries to break away from him.

He holds firm and laughs. "Do you what? Smell?" He makes a show of whiffing around, then wrinkles his nose. "Well, now that you mention it…"

She gasps and struggles harder to break free, and nearly kicks him in the process. "Hey, I'm joking, lay off with the fists," he laughs; she does, but gives him a reprimanding look. "That wasn't funny," she frowns and he kisses her again.

"It was a little bit funny," he smirks against her lips.

She fights back a smile and extracts herself from him slowly. "Well, I'm showering anyway," she declares with conviction and disappears into the bedroom.

He smirks. "Can I help?" he calls after her; she reappears a moment later, a change of clothes – or maybe pajamas, he can't tell – bundled in her hand.

"As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather you didn't," she smiles. "On my own, I'll be done in five minutes; with your… help, God only knows how long we'd be in there, and there's a very real possibility I will faint if I don't eat something in the next fifteen minutes."

"I can work fast," he winks at her but she just smiles and disappears behind the bathroom door; he smiles to himself when she doesn't close it but just shakes his head and turns to the coffee table to unpack the food. As numerous burgers come out of the bags, followed by various types of potatoes and sauces, he can't help and steal glances towards the half-closed door. Rationally, he knows there's nothing stopping him from going in there – not that he really wants to start anything because she's clearly tired and not really in the mood – but just to get a quick sneak peek. He has yet to lay his eyes on certain parts of her, and now that he knows what they feel like, the moment to finally see everything there is to see just can't come soon enough.

The shower stops; wrenching his thoughts away from what is going on in the bathroom, he turns his back to the door and settles on the floor next to the coffee table, kicking his shoes off. Glancing at the pile of food now unpacked on the table, he can't help but chuckle to himself at the sheer quantities of it, and makes a silent bet with himself that there's no way even she can eat all of it, Gilmore or not.

She emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing pajamas and a tank-top, her hair piled up on top of her head in an adorable mess; his mouth drops open but he catches himself before she notices, and smirks up at her as she sits on the sofa and reaches for a hamburger.

"God, I'm starving," she says breathlessly, and gives him a quick smile as she unwraps a burger and pulls a pack of french fries closer. "You might want to look away, chances are this won't be very pretty," she warns humorously before she takes a bite.

"I've seen you eat before," he smirks and reaches for the french fries as well.

"I don't think I've ever been this hungry before," she announces with her mouth full, then swallows, blushing. "Sorry."

He laughs. "Hungry or not, there's no way you can eat all of this."

She glances over the food and smiles. "Well, yeah, I might have overdone it a little."

His eyebrows lift. "A little? Rory, there's six burgers here, and I won't even get into all the extras."

She frowns, deep in thought and surveys the food again. "Okay, you can have two if you want," she says finally and he laughs again. "Just so you know, I could eat them all, but chances are, I'd be sick so I'll refrain," she points out matter-of-factly, "so dig in."

"Thanks," he says with a chuckle and reaches for a burger, then catches a strange look on her face and stops, burger still in the air. "What?" he asks suspiciously.

"No, nothing," she shakes her head quickly.

"It's definitely something," he declares and frowns at her. "Go ahead, spill."

She blushes. "It's just… that's a cheeseburger," she points to a package in his hand.

He looks at it, confused. "So?"

"So, nothing," she shakes her head quickly. "It's not a hamburger, that's all. Those three are," she adds, pointing to the table.

He looks at her, lost for a moment, but then it dawns on him and he burst out laughing. "Rory, would you rather I leave the cheeseburger for you?" he asks with mock seriousness.

She shrugs. "If you want," she says non-comitally; he sets the cheeseburger down with a chuckle and reaches for another package.

"Is this okay?" he smirks, and she nods, smiling. "You're sure?" he asks again, and she rolls her eyes.

In the time it takes him to finish two hamburgers, she's done with three, and he watches her eye the last one suspiciously.

"You don't have to eat it just to prove a point, you know," he chuckles at her. "I swear, I believe that you could finish it off if you had to, but you don't, so – don't." She looks relieved and he laughs, then laughs harder as she groans loudly as she stumbles to her feet to clear the table. He moves to the sofa and turns on the tv, running into the news.

"Hey, loks there was a serious mess at this press conference today," he calls towards the kitchen.

"I know, that's where all this starvation and exhaustion of mine stems from," she calls back, "so please just skip it for now and read about it tomorrow, I'm so not in the mood for more of that at the moment."

He grins but changes the channel obediently before she walks back into the room, and stands in front of the sofa. "Move," she says with a smile, pushing the coffee table away with her foot.

He frowns. "Move where?" he asks blankly.

"Anywhere," she says grins. "Anywhere off the sofa."

He smirks, standing up. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"No," she laughs. "Just making some improvements."

"Kicking me off a comfortable sofa is not an improvement," he points out regretfully.

She smiles and pushes him out of the way gently. "Just move," she repeats; once he's out of the way, she bends down and pulls on the sofa; it extends outwards, doubling in size. "See?" she points at it. "More space. Definitely an improvement."

He shrugs. "I don't know. In certain situations, I like things better cramped," he smirks.

"Oh I'm sure you would, for the first twenty minutes, and then you'd start fidgeting," she chuckles," but since I have no intention of getting up once I crawl on here, it's much better we did this now."

"So, can I sit back down now?" he asks cautiously.

"By all means," she smiles and waits for him to settle down before she turns off the light and crawls next to him, snuggling close, her head on his shoulder.

"Here, you decide," she says with a yawn and hands him the remote. "Just steer clear of politics."

He smirks into her hair and flips a few channels until he finds one with music. He sets the remote down; his hand closes around her and he runs his fingers up and down her arm in lazy little strokes.

"So, you want to tell me about your day?" he softly asks into her hair.

She chuckles. "Well, it started crazy and quickly progressed into sheer chaos."

"How crazy did it start?" he asks with a grin.

She thinks of Matt; _Jess would probably never forgive me if he knew I did this, _he had said and she lingers on that sentence, wondering if he was right.

"Just with a somewhat strange conversation," she replies, ultimately deciding not to test whether Matt was right or not. "How was yours? Did you and Matt catch up?"

He smirks. "You could say that," he says slowly. "It was a little weird, but parts of it were good. Familiar."

"Do you miss it?" she asks quietly. "Truncheon? Home?"

"I did this morning," he replies, then kisses her head gently. "Not anymore."

She lifts her head and turns over on her stomach so that she can face him, but as soon as she does, she forgets what it was that she wanted to say and she just looks at him silently for a moment before she runs her fingers down his face and outlines the smirk that curves his mouth.

"Do you?" he asks against her fingers and she looks confused. "Miss home?" he adds softly and pulls out the clasp that holds her hair up. She smiles, shaking her head 'no' and he watches the hair tumble down her shoulders for a brief second before she brings her lips to his.

It's a different kiss, lazy and unrushed, without any agenda and without tendencies to be anything more than what it is - a sweet and blissful exchange of emotions that words can't really communicate. It speaks of times gone by and memories from long ago, when they walked the same streets and shared a town that was somehow too small for them, but theirs nonetheless. They feel it unravel delicately, this kiss, both choosing to disregard the adult and the new that it brings, concentrating on finding the old and familiar instead, looking for parts they recognize, those that they've cherished over the years, those that remained untainted by everything that came after they had drifted apart and lost track of what once was and the way it felt. In a strange way, it comes easy and natural in this kiss, bringing that feeling back, it takes almost no effort at all to reconnect with the past and just let everything else go and be washed away in time, and for a brief moment, it feels like none of it ever happened, there was no pain caused or mistakes made, there's just this world they've always shared and it feels like they've never really left it.

It ends as gently as it begun; reality sets in and they look at each other silently for a while, wondering if they should look for words to attach to what they just felt, but there are none, not the right ones and not yet. Someday, maybe there would be, but right now this new world between them is barely formed and fragile, like a delicate soap bubble, and they don't dare poke at it too much, afraid it might burst and vanish right in front of them.

The silence becomes louder and Rory smiles in the face of it and rests her chin against Jess's chest. "Are you staying?" she asks softly.

He smirks. "Do you want me too?"

She lifts her eyebrows. "Did that not get across just now?"

"A lot of things got across just now," he smirks and runs his hands through her hair.

She smiles. "So, you're staying?"

"I'm staying," he nods, then reaches for his phone. "When do you have to get up?"

"Seven," she yawns.

"Ouch," he cringes as he sets the alarm. "I don't think I even remember what seven looks like."

She smiles. "Well, there's no real reason for you to find out," she says and takes the phone away. "If you have nowhere to be, just stay where you are. I would if I were you," she sighs.

He smirks. "You would just leave me here, in your little kingdom, unattended?"

"Without thinking twice," she chuckles, "you're much too lazy to snoop." She slides down until her face rests on his shoulder again, wraps her hand around his midriff and throws her leg over his. "I'll leave the keys on the table," she yawns.

"I might still get up at seven, just to see what it's like," he smirks.

"Yeah, right," she dismisses with a laugh. "There's a blanket just above your head, can you get it?"

"I thought you had a bed," he says as he reaches for said blanket, then throws it over them.

"I do," she yawns, pulling on the blanket. "But it got promoted to a closet recently."

He smirks. "What happened to the closet?"

"Nothing, it's still a closet," she says flatly.

He laughs. "Okay, I give up."

"Smart call," she chuckles. "It's like that handbag thing, you can't really understand it if you're not a girl." She fights another yawn. "Suffice to say, no bag is big enough and there's never enough closet space."

He chuckles inwardly and finds the remote; he shuts the tv off and closes his arms around her, her body wonderfully heavy and warm against his. He listens to her breathe for a while; he feels his own heartbeat gradually adjust to her rhythm, and like a faint melody of an antique music box, it slowly carries him off to sleep.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	20. West

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Sorry for the delay in updates, I've been really busy lately... Also, apologies to the Aerosmith fans :)  
Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to my reviewers! You always make my day! :D

* * *

**20. West**

11:50am  
A persistent, annoying sound gradually invades Jess's consciousness; at first, he tries to block it out, then just ignore it, but it just grows louder and more insistent until it finally yanks him out of sleep and he opens his eyes, trying to figure out what it is and where it's coming from. It takes him a minute to remember where he is, and then another one to figure out the annoying sound is coming from his cell phone. He grabs it and squints at it, but his vision is still blurry and deciphering the number is too great a challenge.

"Yeah," he mumbles into the phone, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the offending sunlight.

"Hey," Rory says breathlessly. "Are you up?"

"I am now," he groans into the pillow.

She chuckles. "Are you up and your brain is fully functional, or are you just mumbling incoherently, still half asleep?"

"Somewhere in between," he yawns.

"Okay, so then get up and take a walk around the room, get that brain going," she laughs softly.

He frowns. "Why? You're not going to dump a math problem on me or something, are you? Those I can't handle before noon, regardless of walking."

"I just need to make sure you're awake before I ask what I'm about to ask," she chuckles.

He removes the pillow and untangles himself from the blankets, propping himself on the elbow. "Okay, I'm sitting, sort of… that's the best I can give you at the moment."

"Okay, so you're fully conscious?"

"As far as I can tell, yeah," he smirks.

"That doesn't sound very reassuring," she frowns. "How about some sit-ups?"

"Rory!"

"Okay, fine," she chuckles. "So this writing and reading of yours, you know, your work, the stuff you do on everyday basis – you can pretty much do that anywhere, right?"

Jess frowns and drops back into the pillow. "Please tell me you didn't call just to ask me that," he says, rubbing his eyes, "because that would just be too insane, even for you."

She laughs. "Just answer me."

He shakes his head. "Writing, reading, work – yeah, I can do it pretty much anywhere, as long as I have my laptop and somewhere to plug it in." He yawns. "Now please tell me this was an introduction to something that will make sense once you actually get it out."

"My editor will hand out assignments in a few minutes, and there's this festival across the country that someone will have to cover, and if you're up for it, I thought I'd volunteer."

"Up for what, exactly?"

"A road trip," she chuckles. "That was kind of obvious, so you must still be asleep."

"A road trip, sure," he smirks, ignoring the jibe.

There's a short pause. "Don't you even want to know where we're going?"

"I don't care," he smirks.

"How long we will be gone, then?" she continues, chuckling.

"Nope," he smirks again.

"Or at least how we're getting there?" she laughs.

He yawns. "I'm sure you've got it all figured out, with lists and everything."

"Hmm," she says, then chuckles. "Okay, but you do need to know _when_ we're leaving, right?"

He laughs. "Only if this trip requires packing," he admits.

"It does," she exclaims victoriously. "Well, it does if you plan on having a change of clothes with you, which I would really appreciate. A toothbrush might also be a nice touch."

"Right, duly noted," he smirks and sits up. "So, I assume you have this all planned out?"

She laughs. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Okay, so give me the wheres and the whens," he chuckles.

"The festival opens tomorrow, and it's a couple of hours drive, so the when is today. The where would be your place, so get up, go over there, pack and so on, and I'll come get you around three. Just make sure you lock up when you leave, I've left the spare keys on the table," she says brightly.

"Okay," he nods, yawning again. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost noon," she chuckles. "You still won't ask where we're going?"

"Nope," he smirks.

"Amazing," she shakes her head. "Okay, I'll see you around three."

He frowns. "Didn't you say your editor was about to hand out assignments?" He smirks. "What if you don't get it?"

She laughs. "Oh, I'll get it. I'm due a good cross-country road trip, one that is stress-less and Paris-free."

"I won't even ask," Jess smirks.

"Don't," she laughs. "I'll see you at three."

...

3.45pm  
_(__You're packin' up your stuff and talkin' like it's tough and tryin' to tell me that it's time to go...)_

"That's it, I'm done," Rory declares, agitated. "I give up."

Jess laughs. "It's barely been twenty minutes."

"Well, it feels like a week from where I'm sitting," she says stubbornly. "A minute more, and I'll start screaming."

"Very theatrical," Jess smirks.

"I'm ecstatic you find my impending nervous breakdown so entertaining," Rory remarks, "but seriously, I'm done." She turns into an alley and slams on the brakes, then lifts her hands from the steering wheel. "Your turn. Once we're out of this insane city and impossible traffic, maybe I'll drive again," she says exasperatedly. "Maybe. Until then, it's all yours."

Jess laughs again and shakes his head. He gets out of the car and she gives him a sweet smile as she climbs over the gear-box and settles into the passenger seat.

"Okay, which way?" he asks once he's behind the steering wheel.

"Are you serious?" she gawks at him. "If I knew how to find my way out of here, trust me, I would have."

He leans against the steering wheel, smirking again. "I wasn't asking for step-by-step directions, just a general heading – you know, north, west, south…" He checks the review mirror and backs out of the alley slowly. "I still don't know where we're going…" Rory opens her mouth but Jess shakes his head "…and I still don't care, but you know, a direction would be nice, unless you want to get out of the city and then spend another hour circling around it."

She rolls her eyes, smiling. "West," she says and throws her jacket into the back seat.

"Okay, west," he smirks, then nods to the radio. "And please, kill the Aerosmith, the wailing will drive me nuts."

...

5.20pm  
_(It is the summer of my smiles - flee from me Keepers of the Gloom; speak to me only with your eyes, it is to you I give this tune... )_

"Just how far west is this west we're heading to?"

Rory laughs. "As west as it gets," she says brightly. "An interesting question, and the first one regarding the mundane details of this little trip. Do I detect a crack appearing in _this I'm-too-cool-to-care-where-I-end-up _persona of yours?"

"The only crack appearing is the one in my stomach," Jess smirks.

Rory nods. "Yeah, I could eat too."

"And I don't do personas," he adds after a moment, smirking. "You're just having trouble grasping the fact that I really don't care where this road ends. I really don't."

"How very Kerouac of you," she chuckles.

"You should try it sometimes," he smirks.

"No thanks," she shakes her head. "Wandering into the unknown is your thing. It always was," she adds absent-mindedly. He looks at her and catches a shadow crossing her face, but she quickly covers it with a smile.

"Back then, I didn't wander. I ran," he says simply. "There's a difference."

She understands the distinction, but there's still bitterness within. "You should have said goodbye."

He shakes his head. "I shouldn't have left at all."

It's a plain statement of fact, and he delivers it simply and honestly, like a universal truth that he's been aware of for a long time and it spreads over her like a warm blanket, safe and dependable. She smiles and scoots closer, leaning her head on his shoulder, and notices a town appear ahead.

"Let's find some food," she says with a smile.

...

6.45pm  
_(I could have turned you into a priestess, I could have burned your fate in the sand…but it all really doesn't matter at all...)_

"Why does it matter so much?" he smirks, glancing at her sideways, her brows knitted together and a frustrated expression on her face. "It was a million years ago."

"Yes, exactly, a million years ago," she agrees, "so why won't you just admit it? It was a snowman, it's not like you'd be admitting to a capital crime or something."

He laughs. "Well, you're clearly sure that I wrecked it," he shrugs. "Why do you need to hear me say it?"

"Because," she smiles.

"That's an excellent argument," he nods seriously. "I'm totally convinced now."

Rory suppresses a chuckle and rolls her eyes instead. "Because if you admit you did do it, then I get to ask why."

He looks at her briefly and the smirk returns. "I could still tell you why."

She laughs. "So you did do it?"

"That's not what I said," he smirks. "I said I could tell you why I might have done it, on a hypothetical level."

"Why won't you just say it?" she wonders, amazed.

"Why are you so hung up on this?" he counters, smiling.

She shakes her head and sighs. "Fine, hypothetically then… why did you wreck that snowman?"

He laughs. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Oh my God, do you have to answer every question with a question?" she retorts, laughing.

He throws her an apologetic look. "Sorry, force of habit… but the answer is kind of obvious," he shrugs. "I wanted you to win that ridiculous contest."

"Why?" she smiles.

"Because you wanted to. Because it would make you happy, and I wanted you to be happy."

"Really?" she says. "I never would have guessed. From my perspective, at that time it seemed you were doing your best to annoy me. Sometimes, you were impossible to live with."

"Oh, trust me, it wasn't a bed of roses for me either," he laughs.

"Right, driving me and the rest of the town crazy must have been a real trial," she quips brightly. "I don't know how you survived."

"I didn't give a shit about the rest of the town," Jess smirks, "but for some unimaginable reason, what you thought mattered to me. I didn't want it to, but it did, and it was beyond annoying, especially considering the fact that I had to watch you walk around town with the gigantic bag-boy."

"Yeah, well, you certainly made up for that with that Shane spectacle," Rory retorts bitterly. "That particular imagery still makes my stomach turn over."

Jess chuckles. "That was the point."

"That's horrible," Rory declares.

"It worked," he points out simply.

She can't argue with that, but she's not ready to give up. "There must have been an easier way to go about it."

Jess laughs out loud and glances at her. "Oh really? Like what? Grandiose declarations, sending flowers, writing love letters? That wasn't me, that was the bag-boy." He smiles. "You didn't want another bag-boy."

It's true, she didn't. She turns sideways in her seat and runs her fingers over the nape of his neck. "So, the snowman. Did you wreck it?"

He smiles at the road ahead. "Yeah, I wrecked it... What can I say? Björk deserved to win."

...

7.30pm  
_(I've walked these streets in a carnival of sights to see  
all the cheap thrill seekers, the vendors and the dealers, they crowded around me…)_

"How many women have you slept with?"

Jess loses his grip on the steering wheel and the car swerves slightly. "What?" he says incredulously, straightening the car.

Rory looks at the coffee in her hands. "You heard me."

He looks at her, frowning. "Where is this coming from?"

She shrugs. "Curiosity, I guess."

"I'm curious, too," he smirks. "How many guys have you slept with?"

She sips her coffee then looks at him. "Two," she says simply.

He looks away to hide the elated look on his face; two is such an inconsequential number that he can barely believe it's true.

"Your turn," she says with a smile. "How many?"

The elation fades quickly and he suddenly feels nauseous. "Too many," he says after a while.

"That's not really an answer," she chuckles. "Try harder."

He sighs. "I really don't know. I didn't keep count."

She shrugs. "Fine. Give me a ballpark figure then."

"I don't know, a lot… look, can we just drop this?" he says irritably.

She frowns, confused. "Why?"

"Because I really don't want to relive those experiences," he mumbles at the windshield.

Rory chuckles. "They can't all have been bad."

"That's not what I meant," he says firmly.

She studies the frown on his face for a moment, then matches it with one of her own. "Then what did you mean?"

"You're not letting this go, are you?" He glances at her and she just raises her eyebrows at him; he sighs and shakes his head. "I don't know how many, I didn't keep track because it was all pointless and stupid. It was like the drinking, completely meaningless and shallow and superficial. There was nothing in any of it worth remembering." He glances at her again. "Those weren't exactly my brightest moments."

Rory looks at her coffee again, certain he could be more specific on the number issue, but also certain he's not going to be, and that's enough for her to understand the count is probably much higher than she would like it to be.

"Is this going to be an issue for you?" he asks gently, and when she looks at him, the apprehension in his eyes shows plainly, and somehow its presence there helps her realize that she really doesn't care, she doesn't care because he's here now and because past belongs in the past.

"That depends," she says quietly and sips her coffee.

He waits for her to continue, but she doesn't, and even though he hates to sound eager, this is too important. "On what?"

She looks up. "On how smart and careful or how stupid or careless you were about it," she says seriously.

He pulls over on the side of the road, then leans against the steering wheel and looks into her eyes. "I was always smart about it," he says slowly.

"Always? As in, you were never stupid, not once?"

He shakes his head. "Not once," he repeats firmly.

She examines his face for a moment, but then she smiles and shrugs her shoulders. "Then it's not going to be an issue," she says simply and sips her coffee again.

As the words come out, Jess feels like the Himalayan mountain range has been lifted from his chest, and takes a first deep breath in the last ten minutes. A smile breaks on his face and he pulls her closer and kisses her gently. He can feel her smile against his lips; her fingers curl in his hair and quickly their tongues wind together in a delicious dance that makes his heart race and his blood rush.

A truck roars by, honking loudly, and they nearly jump out of their skin at the noise; they pull apart regretfully, remembering they're at the side of a road.

"Are you tired? You want me to drive for a while?" Rory asks and throws the now empty coffee cup into the back seat.

He shakes his head. "No, I'm good," he says and starts the car again.

Rory kicks her shoes off, pushes her seat back and lifts her feet up on the dashboard. Jess smirks at the maneuver and returns them back to the road.

"So how many women have you slept with that you actually cared about?" Rory rephrases her earlier question.

He smiles at the windshield. "None," he says softly. "But I kind of think the first one will be worth the wait."

...

8.45pm  
_(She comes out of the sun in a silk dress, running, like a watercolor in the rain  
Don't bother asking for explanations, she'll just tell you that she came...in the Year of the Cat)_

"Drugs? Are you kidding me?" Rory gapes at Jess, astounded.

"That's what I hear," he shrugs, smirking.

She shakes her head. "How on Earth did you get to drugs?"

"Maybe not exclusively drugs, " he smirks at the astonished expression on her face. "But it's definitely about addiction."

She stares at the radio. "There is no mention of drugs in this song. Anywhere."

"Not explicitly, no," he laughs. "But the symbolism is there."

"Where, exactly?" she asks bluntly, laughing loudly.

"Everywhere," he shrugs, smirking. "You just have to know how to listen."

"You're delusional," she shakes her head.

"Hey, you asked what I thought the song was about, and I told you," Jess retorts. "Don't bite my head off."

"I'm not," she says defensively. "It just seems like a very extreme interpretation, and I can't figure out where you get it from."

He shrugs. "I don't know, it just seems to describe the experience of getting high, or getting drunk or whatever. In the beginning, there's the rush and the sense of adventure, and once the high is over, there's the low point and the realization you've done something incredibly stupid. Those few lines towards the end are the real gems _– when morning comes and you're still with her, and the bus and the tourists are gone; and you've thrown away the choice and lost your ticket, so you have to stay on... _- this is when you figure out you've effectively screwed yourself." He smirks at the frown on her face. "This is a feeling I've known much too often and much too well, so it's easy to recognize."

A fleeting chill runs through Rory at the casual reference of his drinking binges, but she quickly realizes that it's actually a good thing that he mentions them so freely. She examines the small smile on his face and returns it warmly. "I really never thought of it that way."

The smile turns into a smirk. "Okay, so what's your interpretation?"

She shrugs. "A man meets a woman in an exotic place, they connect on some unexpected level, they stay together for a while then drift apart… something along those lines," she says with a smile.

"So, pretty literal?" he challenges. "No hidden meanings?"

"I guess not," she agrees.

He looks at her briefly, smirking, then turns his eyes back to the road and shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Well, I guess that's why you're the journalist, and I'm the writer."

Rory frowns and looks at him, then hits replay on the radio. Jess shakes his head and smiles.

...

9.15 pm  
_(…so how could your hair have the nerve to dance around like that, blowing  
and how could the air have the nerve to blow your hair around like that…)_

"Okay, so this is it," Rory says as they pull into an inn parking lot.

"You're sure?" Jess looks around. "I can't imagine a festival being held here. This place is tiny."

She laughs. "No, the festival takes place in that town we passed a while back."

He frowns. "So what are we doing here?"

"This is where we're staying," she says brightly, pointing to the inn.

"Why?" he asks, confused.

"You should really wait until daytime to ask me that question," Rory says enigmatically.

"Fair enough," he laughs. "Hopefully it will stop raining by then, too."

"Yeah, tell me about it," she sighs and peers through the window. "If the weather doesn't clear, I'm afraid it won't be much of a festival."

"So, are you ready to make a run for it?" he nods to the inn entrance, smirking slightly. "It's just far enough from here to there for us to get completely soaked."

"I can't believe I didn't bring an umbrella," Rory whines.

Jess laughs. "Honestly, neither can I, and I'm guessing you had at least three lists made for this trip."

"Well, you could have thought of it too," she remarks as she gathers her jacket and her handbag from the back seat.

"Actually, I did think of it," Jess smirks," I just decided if it rained, I would get wet."

Rory rolls her eyes. "Of course you did."

"It's just rain," Jess chuckles and watches her pull on her jacket.

"Well, if it's just rain, then you won't mind getting our stuff out of the trunk while I run in there and get us checked in," she grins.

"That depends on the volume of your luggage," he eyes her suspiciously. "I don't mind getting wet, but I'd rather not have my back broken under fifteen suitcases."

She laughs. "I didn't bring that many."

"Yeah well, I've seen the amount of stuff you lug around on a daily basis, so forgive me if I'm not convinced."

"Jess, I have one bag, I'm sure you'll survive the strain," she chuckles and kisses him lightly before she opens the door and bolts through the rain.

_(..I'm just waiting for a 90-mile water wall to take me out of your view...)_

* * *

_Songs quoted in this chapter:_  
_Crazy, Aerosmith_  
_The Rain Song, Led Zeppelin_  
_Life's A Gas, T-Rex_  
_Carnival, Natalie Merchant_  
_Year Of The Cat, Al Stewart_  
_90-Mile Water Wall, The National_

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	21. Of Thoughts And Forsaking Them

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to my reviewers! You always make my day! :D

* * *

**21. Of Thoughts And Forsaking Them**

The room is just the right size, not too big and not too small; the walls are painted a light green and Rory likes the color. There is a small desk with a chair against one wall, a closet against another, and a tv is mounted on the wall across the bed; a sliding glass door opens onto a small balcony with a table and two chairs – all in all, not a bad place to spend a few days, she thinks as she turns on a lamp that sits on the nightstand, and turns to Jess. He's unloading their luggage on the floor; to say he's soaked would be an understatement, but when he looks up and smiles at her under the wet hair, the room suddenly seems to grow a few degrees warmer and she loses her trail of thought for a moment and just stares at him.

"So, I think I'll take a shower," he smirks, moving the hair away from his face and peeling the wet shirt off, apparently oblivious to her brain freeze.

Rory nods, smiling, but can't really form a reply, so she just watches him dig through his backpack and disappear into the bathroom. Once he's out of sight, she regains control of her senses again - the main light is too bright and so she flips the switch and turns on the other small lamp instead. The shower starts in the bathroom and simultaneously, her heart starts to beat faster and suddenly she feels nervous; she takes a breath and sternly tells herself she's being ridiculous. She takes her jacket off, then steps out on the balcony, squinting to make out the view, but there's nothing to be seen except darkness and rain. The view, if there is one, will have to wait until tomorrow, and she returns inside. She feels kind of hungry, which is not a good thing because it's late and pouring out and finding something to eat might prove to be a challenge, but then she remembers seeing several vending machines in the lobby. She finds a piece of paper and scribbles a note, then heads down to the lobby.

She finds the vending machines offer quite a wide selection, and she chooses some sandwiches and soft drinks. She peeks into the dining room but it's dark. The whole place is pretty much deserted except for an old couple sitting in the lobby, hunched over a table; when she steps closer, she can see they're playing dominoes; the scene is overwhelmingly endearing and she can't help smiling and wishing to be just like them, with someone, someday.

She starts back to the room, and as her thoughts return to Jess, the erratic heartbeat returns with them, and she suddenly realizes she's not just nervous, she's also scared, although it's not the same kind of fear she'd experienced when she was younger - she's not scared of her feelings anymore, she's scared of the unknown, she's scared of this new level they're about to step into. Sex is an unpredictable, impetuous thing, it deals in passion and instinct, it brings abandon and abdication of all control; it has an enormous capacity to elicit change and just how it may change them worries her. This thing between them has just somehow been so smooth and effortless since it began again that it's easy to forget just how new and recent it actually is, and it somehow seems too easy, too simple, too uncomplicated to believe, and she can't help feeling it's just too good to be true.

On a whole different level of anxiety, she's never really thought of herself as being very good at sex, and she knows he is, because as dismissive as he is about his experiences, the fact remains they existed, and practice makes perfect – perfect enough to make her forget herself to the point that she didn't care about Matt sleeping in the same room. This in itself is an unbelievable thing, a thing that would never have happened with anybody else because nobody else has ever made her feel the way she felt that night. It was like she had completely stepped out of herself, completely foregone her brain and only feelings existed, there were just senses and instinct and incredible freedom that came with them.

She reaches the door and stops in front of it; she stares at it for a moment, then leans against the wall across, wishing there had been a vending machine stocked with alcohol. She takes a few deep breaths, and pushes the door open, half-scared she'll walk into another delicious scene that will make her brain stall again. She doesn't; she finds Jess has set up his laptop on the desk and is sitting in front of it, his hair still wet but the rest of him dry and mercifully hidden under a shirt and pajamas. He looks up at her and smirks at the collection in her arms.

"I see you've found food," he says with a smile.

She looks down at the sandwiches and suddenly realizes she's not hungry anymore; she puts it all down on the desk next to the laptop. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Writing?"

He shakes his head. "No, just checking e-mail. Matt says hi."

She smiles and kicks off her shoes. "Is he going to stop by again on his way back?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, he didn't say." He laughs. "He never does."

She smiles wider and nods to the bathroom. "How was the shower?"

"A religious experience," he smirks.

She laughs. "I think I could use one of those," she says and opens her bag in search of pajamas; as soon as she does, a new dilemma presents itself and panic washes over her. Should she wear pajamas? She has to wear something, she can't just walk out of there stark naked - well, she could, but she's knows she's just not cool enough to pull it of properly . He's wearing pajamas, but then, guys don't usually dress up for this kind of thing. For a moment, she can't believe she didn't think this through more thoroughly, it's not like she didn't know what would happen here; she knew, she knew when she'd called him and asked if he wanted to come along, but it didn't seem like such a big thing back then and she briefly wonders when exactly it developed into one. She steals a glance at him but he's looking at the laptop; she quickly grabs the entire bag and moves towards the bathroom.

"You want to take my backpack as well?" Jess's voice sounds behind her; she turns around and finds him smiling at her. It's not a smirk, it's a smile, and there's a little too much understanding in it.

"I don't know what I might need," she says defensively.

He smiles wider. "I'm thinking, pajamas and a toothbrush," he says softly. "You really don't need anything else."

She smiles but takes the whole bag nonetheless; Jess watches the door close then goes back to the laptop and shuts it off. He gets up and looks for his jacket; once he finds it, he pulls out his cigarettes and moves out into the balcony. There's an ashtray out here and he sits down, lights a cigarette and looks out over the railing. It's still raining, but it's not pouring anymore - now it's just a soft drizzle that beats gently against the leaves.

Here they are, together, alone, and curiously, it feels completely right and natural. There's no apprehension, no fear, no anxiety, there's just a comfortable calmness, serenity and peace and it's this feeling of peace that finally really convinces him that it wasn't a mistake to do this again, no matter how it turns out in the end. Maybe it even turns out like it did for the grandma and grandpa he passed earlier down in the lobby, sitting together at the little table, although the thought seems too sentimental somehow and he dismisses it quickly. He tries to remember when he last felt this peaceful, but the feeling is somewhere so far in the past that he can't really recall it.

As natural and peaceful as the situation feels on the whole, some particulars of it are much less such. There's nothing calm and serene about the physical aspect of it – that part is more crazed and intense than anything he experienced before. Sex had always been just sex, and no matter how good it may have been on some occasions, he could always maintain a firm grip of himself. With her, it's different; all sense and reason disappears within a few seconds of touching her, and things spiral out of control much too fast, so fast that even Matt's presence becomes meaningless. It's something he has no control over, this desire he has for her, he wants her like he never wanted anything in his life; he doesn't think he ever really wanted anything but her. It's always been here, this craving - sometimes more, sometimes less pronounced, but always present.

And now, here they are, together, alone, and he suddenly wishes it was less demanding and less urgent, this craving; he wishes it was less charged and not so long overdue because it's not just about him this time – and it would be so much easier if it was. _You should always lock yourself in the bathroom and invest a few minutes to take the edge off before a big date_, Matt had said once, and Jess had laughed his head off at the time; but right now, it sounds like a brilliant piece of advice and he wishes he'd remembered it sooner.

The cigarette has gone up in smoke, and he had barely touched it; he puts it out and listens for the shower. It's not running anymore, and he looks out into the rain again and returns inside. He barely sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for the remote when the bathroom door opens and Rory emerges, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top, her hair wet and piled on top of her head. Jess takes in the long legs and the tight shirt, and once again represses the crazy impulse to pounce.

"The hairdryer doesn't work," she says with a small smile.

"Thank god for that," he replies with a smirk, although in a somewhat croaked voice.

She smiles wider and walks over to the chair where she deposits her clothes before she turns around and faces him. "You're staring," she points out.

The smirk grows. "I know."

She folds her arms on her chest and leans against the wall across from him. "Could you not stare?"

"No, sorry," he grins and looks up but her eyes dart around the room, avoiding him. "Nervous?" he asks gently.

She slowly slides down the wall until she's sitting on the floor; their toes touch and she stares at them for a moment before she finally looks at him. "Scared shitless," she blurts out, and he can't help a smile.

"Did you just curse?" he grins.

She shakes her head. "That's what you choose to focus on?"

"Sorry," he smirks. "So, scared shitless. Why is that?"

She shrugs. "I don't know," she looks at him anxiously. " You, me, sex."

"For now, it's just you, me, talking," he points out with a smile. "The sex comes later, hopefully."

She shakes her head and sighs. "A lot of things could go wrong here," she says quietly.

He laughs softly. "How is that? We both know where everything is, what it does and where it goes."

She tries to frown, but a smile escapes instead. "That's not what I meant." His eyebrows lift and she takes a breath. "It could change things," she says softly.

He chuckles. "Yeah, they could go from good to great. What a disaster that would be…"

"Or the other way around," she points out quietly, ignoring the last bit. Again, he looks confused. "It's you and me, we're perfectly capable of messing this up," she explains.

He leans forward and looks at her seriously. "Rory, do you not want to do this?"

"No, it's not that, I want to," she replies quickly, "and I think that's painfully obvious, given my performance the other night" she adds, blushing slightly. "I just… love this thing that is happening, it's great and it's easy and amazing, I never thought it could be so simple and so normal again, and I don't want to screw it up, but I keep thinking – it's us, and we're bound to make a mess of it somehow, and, you know - maybe this is how we do it."

"And how exactly do you see that happening?" he asks, smirking again.

"I don't know," she mumbles to their toes. "I haven't gotten that far yet."

He can't help a laugh this time, and she shrugs and looks up at him with a small smile. "I know it sounds stupid."

He shakes his head and takes hold of her hands, pulling her up gently until she's kneeling in front of him and their faces are level. "You're thinking too much," he says quietly and removes her hair clip, letting the mass of hair tumble down. He gently pushes it back over her shoulders and slowly runs his hands up and down her arms. "You always think too much," he whispers against her face, and Rory's heart jumps into her throat; her eyes close and suddenly, nothing in the world exists except his breath that dances across her lips.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	22. Catching Up

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.  
Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to my reviewers! You always make my day! :D

**Very M rated content below. You've been warned :o)**

* * *

**22. Catching Up**

There's a kiss lurking somewhere behind the breath that brushes against her lips and Rory waits for it impatiently but it never comes; instead, there is a gentle trail of light caresses that his mouth leaves along her face. They are soft and elusive, these little imprints he leaves on her skin, they are almost lighter than air, and if they didn't create such exquisite mayhem of sensations within, she would have trouble believing they are there at all. The mayhem is there, however, and it resonates in the crazy rhythm of her heart and the butterflies in her stomach, and her head falls to the side as the trail extends down her neck. Absentmindedly, instinctively, she runs her hands up his legs and balls the pajamas in her fists, looking for something to hold on to as the moist traces continue down to her collar-bone, still delicate and evasive, yet somehow producing greater chaos every step of the way. Less can sometimes be so much more, she learns quickly, but it's just not enough, and she looks for his mouth blindly, hungry for a more tangible experience of him, wanting to share some of this heat he ignited.

She tastes like rain; her mouth moves against his with a gentle force of a spring shower, and she kisses in a rhythm like the one that beats against the windowpanes, soft, changeable and playful. Her tongue runs over his lips lazily before it darts into his mouth in search of his, exploring slowly but purposefully until both are tangled together in a dance that picks up in momentum with every new turn, sending feverish little tingles down his spine. Her hands fold around his neck and she pulls herself up from the floor and climbs into his lap, her glorious legs curled on either side of him, warm and finally reachable. He takes his time exploring every angle, shape and curve, sliding slowly from her calves to her knees up to her thighs, noticing how the skin texture changes and gets softer. The kiss, however, gets harder the further up his hands go, and as he reaches under the hem of her shorts, her tongue lashes against his with unabashed urgency, hungry and demanding; his blood rushes down, he grips her tighter and in one hectic move, pulls her hips against his own. For a split second, his mind stalls, its function suspended by a frenzy of sensations that shoot across his body, but it blanks completely when she moves against him in a long firm slide. Instinct takes over instantly and he pushes back; a whimper rises from her throat and he pulls her forward again, chasing another one. The friction feels like heaven, and he forgets himself for a while, he forgets everything between the little moans she gives and the way she feels against him, but it all begins to feel too good too soon and he snaps out of it with a jolt and pulls away, holding her in place firmly.

"Stop," he chokes out, short of breath.

Her eyes snap open. "Are you kidding me?" she gasps against his lips.

"You're too good at this," he smirks. "If you want it to last, you have to stop moving."

"I don't care, I'm not timing you" she breathes.

He chuckles. "I care," he says, "and I'm not cheating either of us out of the real thing."

"Don't I get a say in this?" she folds her hands across her chest, pouting.

"In this particular instance, no," he smirks and runs his finger over her lips.

"You're mean," she frowns and bites on the offending finger gently.

He pulls his hand away, grinning. "Just take a breath," he smirks and pulls his shirt off. "You can thank me later."

She might continue the discussion if it wasn't for the disappearance of the shirt, a factor that always inhibits any rational thought process, and for a moment she wonders if he's aware of this and doing it on purpose. However, thinking becomes irrelevant quickly in the face of the new imagery before her, and she examines it with baited breath. He's not broad-shouldered or muscular, but everything about him is still perfectly defined; all the shapes are there, proportionally settled in a sinewy, tenacious frame that exerts subtle strength. She runs her hand across his chest, wonderfully hairless and smooth, down to his stomach, feeling the muscles shift and move under her palm; she makes a small circle around his navel and follows the thin line of dark hair down to the pajamas. His grip on her legs tightens, and her heart beats faster as she looks up at the frown of concentration that forms on his face; she smiles a small smile and moves back up to his chest. He lets go of her and leans back on his elbows, looking up at her.

"Take off your shirt," he says in a husky voice.

Her hands freeze and her skin bristles at the tone; there's a brief surge of panic but all inhibitions vanish when she looks into his eyes, colored dark with desire. She hesitates for just a moment, then slowly pulls the shirt over her head and drops it on the floor, watching the expression on his face change as his eyes travel over her, searching and studying. She sits perfectly still, expecting to feel exposed, vulnerable, or at least uncomfortable under such close scrutiny. Curiously, the feeling never comes; instead, there is just a strange sense of pride at the expression of reverence and admiration that settles on his face, and it multiplies when she feels him twitch against her involuntarily. She smiles a canny little smile, but it doesn't register at all as he sits up so suddenly that it catches her completely off guard and she nearly topples over to the floor before he catches her in a firm embrace. They come together in a rush, lips first and bodies following, pressed together skin to skin; the contact brings a new assault on her senses, giving a fresh rise to the heat within, but this heat feels like a soft glow compared to the fire that erupts when she feels his mouth close over her breast a moment later, his tongue brushing against a nipple in a lazy stroke. Her head falls back and she arches against the hand that supports her, oblivious to everything but the little jolts of pleasure his touch sends rushing through her insides. The fire grows hotter when his thumb grazes the other nipple, and for a few moments she holds on for dear life, digging her nails into his shoulders, until it all gets too much to take sitting still and she leans into him, pushing him down on his back and claiming his mouth in a frenzied kiss.

She comes at him like a storm, and he tangles his hands in her hair, letting her set the pace and it's a wild, hectic rhythm she chooses, a rhythm that matches the pulse that beats in every nerve within him, intense and furious, and growing more urgent with every breath. Slowly, she slides down and her mouth leaves moist traces along his jaw line, down to his chest and further along his ribs, across his stomach and below his navel; she gently pulls free of his hands and hooks her fingers in the waistband of his pajamas and tugs on them gently. He lifts himself up on his elbows, determined to watch and praying he can take it, and his heart nearly flies out of his chest when her hand closes around him, her eyes wide and hungry. The scene is so insanely hot that he snaps his eyes shut, trying hard to get enough of a grip over himself to be able to open them again, but any hope of doing so vanishes into thin air when she moves her hand; his hips shoot up instinctively, and she grips him tighter and follows up with a few long strokes. His brain goes out like a light, and the only reality that remains is the growing thrill her touch brings, until somewhere on the edge of conscience, he senses her move and suddenly feels her breath against himself. His eyes snap open and his hand shoots out, gripping her wrist, stopping her before her lips get any closer because he can't let her do this now, he's much too far gone for that. "Come back," he whispers hoarsely at the confused look on her face, kicking the pants of his legs as he pulls her up gently, rolling her over once she slides back up.

She can feel him everywhere now and his lips crash against hers, firm and demanding. It's a different kind of kiss, it aims to possess and to claim without reservation, and it robs her of all coherent thought, leaving just a unique desire to belong in its wake. Clutching at his back, she can feel all the glorious muscles flex and shift as he moves against her, but it's an aimless sort of motion and it doesn't hit the right spot, and she squirms under him, chasing the elusive pressure. His hand slides up her side and he runs his palm over her breast; her breath skips against his mouth and her hips jerk against him wildly. His mouth moves to her ear, teasing at her earlobe as he rolls a nipple gently between his fingers, and he slides against her in a lazy stroke; she gasps his name followed by something else, completely incoherent, as she finally finds the friction she's looking for. It only lasts a moment and suddenly he pulls away; she yelps in frustration, but he does it just to make short work of her shorts, casting them across the room in one swift motion. Once they're gone, he sits back on his heels and looks at her, and for a second, she feels the intensity of the stare alone might be enough to push her over the edge. Wide-eyed and breathless, she watches him turn around and reach into his backpack; the condom gets rolled on quickly and the burning gaze returns, followed by hands that run up her legs smoothly before he hooks his fingers under her knees and pulls her closer.

Her thighs are soft under his palms and they quiver slightly under his lips as he slowly works his way up her legs; the shudders grow as he climbs higher, and he hears her breath hitch when he settles between her legs, pushing them apart gently, tasting her in one long stroke. She lets out a whimper and grabs a fistful of his hair as she thrusts her hips against his tongue, and he wildly searches for sobering mental image to counteract the rush that surges through him, threatening to push him over the point of no return. Running his hands up to her stomach, he holds her down and gently sucks on the core of her, blissfully listening as she cries out and watching her arch up from the bed before she pulls on his hair, tugging him away.

"Enough," she breathes urgently, "enough with the games."

There is a look of infinite need in her eyes and he rushes up her body, her hands clawing at him frantically; their lips crash together in desperate urgency and sparks flare behind his eyelids as he slips into her in one easy stroke. She moans against his mouth in a thick, delicious tone and wraps her legs around him; his hands find hers and push them over her head as he entwines their fingers together, diving into her in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm, losing himself in her warmth and the blissful sensations it evokes. He takes it slowly, more for his own benefit than for hers, because it seems he's waited a lifetime to feel this way and he doesn't want to lose this feeling, but he soon senses a growing urgency in the way she moves, in the shortness of her breath and the way she grips his hands. He moves faster and she gasps his name in sweet abandon as he picks up the pace and stars begin to explode in existence behind her eyes. "Look at me," he breathes against her mouth and her eyes snap open, finding his, sharing heart and soul for a brief moment before another stroke deep within sends her hurtling headlong into a divine explosion of senses that renders the world around her obsolete. He drowns her cry in a kiss, feeling her muscles clench and tighten around him wildly, carrying him away in a thunderous wave of ecstasy that builds to incredible heights until it erupts with a force of a thousand volcanoes.

They stay still for a long time, gazing at each other as the shudders recede, heartbeats subside and breaths grow longer, examining each other's face and listening for stray thoughts, completely lost in one another, connected and enveloped in a world that is just their own. There are words waiting to be said, but neither can remember what they are and so the first form of communication comes in smiles. They are small but quick in coming, and they bring a weird reassurance that it's okay to get untangled now, that they won't lose anything if they let go of each other. Still, they start slow and just let their hands break away first; she reaches up and moves the damp hair away from his face while he runs his fingers over her mouth. She bites on it playfully; he smirks and rolls over on his back, pulling her with him. She settles against his shoulder and runs her fingers over his chest in lazy circles as he reaches for the switch and turns off the lamp on the nightstand.

"We should have done this a long time ago," she smiles against his chest.

He holds her tighter and smirks into her hair. "We'll catch up," he says softly.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	23. The Pop Quiz

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Ahh, finally... unbeliavable but true, I actually updated. There's really no excuse for such a horrible gap in updates, except, you know - life. I just haven't had the time. Seriously. If it makes you feel better, I nearly developed an ulcer from the guilt trip I've been on because I haven't updated in so long. Also, if anyone was worried, I have no intention of abandoning this story. It just might take some time to finish it because I'm still really busy. But I'll get there, I promise.

Also... a huge apology to people who sent messages. You might not believe it, but due to this horrendous guilt trip, I haven't logged into either my ff account or e-mail for months. Literally. I sort of said I wouldn't look at any reviews untill I wrote another chapter. It was sort of a self-imposed punishment because I love reviews, and I love getting messages. Didn't really occur to me until half an hour ago when I did log in that this punishment of mine is grossly unfair to people who did send messages. Duh :o(... So, a thousand apologies. The moment I publish this, I'll go read and answer them all.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to my reviewers! You always make my day! :D

* * *

**23. The Pop Quiz**

The smell of coffee is irresistible and it gently sneaks its way into Jess's consciousness, surpassing that soft haze that marks the boundary between being asleep and being awake. He yawns and stretches, and as the haze lifts, a curious feeling washes over him, a feeling he recognizes and should be able to name but can't quite get there because although he's felt it before, it was so long ago that its reappearance is like a visit from a distant cousin that he hasn't seen in years and doesn't really know anymore. For the moment, he gives up on the search for the common name for this combination of warmth, comfort, elation and content and opens his eyes into the bright sunlight that colors the room walls a fresh, light green.

Rory's sitting at the desk, his laptop in front of her and a coffee in her hand. He looks at her quietly, watching as she sips from her cup and frowns at the screen as the sunlight dances over her head and makes her hair shine in different hues of golden brown. He quickly realizes he could wake up to this scene forever and suddenly has no problem naming the feeling he was struggling with earlier – it's happiness. The simplicity of it ties him up in knots for a moment, and he looks away from her and lets his eyes roam around the room. It's a mess of open bags and backpacks, and clothes and shoes laying around; her notes are scattered around the laptop but there's a interesting painting over the desk, depicting a cliff that abruptly drops to the ocean, and although the painting itself is of general hotel quality, the landscape it features is awesome.

"It's the cliffs of Moher," her voice breaks the silence and he looks at her again; she greets him with a radiant look and a bright smile.

"I'm guessing that's why you said to wait until daytime to ask why we're staying here," he smiles back.

She nods and puts her coffee away, then quickly crawls on the bed and stretches on top of him. "Hi," she says softly and wants to kiss him; he holds her back and she frowns. "Morning breath," he warns.

She brushes this aside with a laugh. "I'll survive," she says with conviction and plants a sweet kiss against his lips before she entwines her fingers on top of his chest and rests her chin against them, smiling up at him. "Hi," she says again.

"Didn't we do this already?" he smirks.

"Not properly, no," she shakes her head.

"Right, not properly," he nods back and gently pushes her hair back. "So, how did you sleep?"

"Like a princess," she says. "Without the pea," she adds with a smile. "You?"

"Like I'm in bed with a princess," he smirks. "You need your space."

"Sorry," she smiles apologetically. "Any serious bruises?"

"I'll live," he smirks. "Besides, you stopped kicking once I let you use me as a pillow."

She laughs. "I hope you learned your lesson. Don't attempt to fight me in bed, I always win."

"Well, if all your victories even remotely resemble the one from last night, I'll gladly lose to you in regular twenty minute intervals," he grins at her, then grins wider as he watches a faint blush creep into her cheeks. He loves this about her, for some inexplicable reason, he loves this teenage version of her that resurfaces randomly and always makes him smile. He kisses the top of her head and smirks into her hair. "What, no comment?"

She looks up at him; the blush is still there but a small smile trails behind. "I'm just… relieved that you said that, I guess."

His eyebrows lift. "Relieved?"

"I don't think it's really my forte," she explains. "The whole sex thing," she adds to clarify.

Jess can't help a laugh. "Yeah, Rory, I know what we're talking about…"

"Right," she blushes again.

"…And you're wrong," he smirks. "Very, very, very wrong, at least in my experience."

She smiles and throws him a strange look, but says nothing.

"What?" he frowns.

She shakes her head and lays her cheek against his chest, listening to his heart beat against her ear.

"Out with it," he says firmly.

She looks at him again and takes a breath. "Did I make it in the top ten, in your experience?" He gapes at her and her heart sinks. "Top twenty?"

For a moment, he's speechless, trying to digest the question; at first, he doesn't really understand it at all until the comparison she's trying to make dawns on him, and it's beyond ludicrous in his mind.

"You're insane," he says gently, with a smile so genuine that her heart skips a beat. "If you want to measure one thing against another, for the comparison to make any sense, the two things need to be of at least approximately the same value. In my head, what you're asking me to do is compare… an actual Van Gogh painting with dozens of its color-by-numbers reproductions. There's no comparison." He runs his fingers over her face. "You're you. Even if you were a complete disaster in bed, just by being you, you'd be the best I ever had," he smirks.

"Meaning I wasn't a disaster, right?" she smiles, wondering why what he just said sounds a lot like a cryptic profession of love.

"You weren't," he nods, and is rewarded by a smile. "What time is it, anyway?" he asks, squinting into the sunlight.

She laughs. "Almost noon," she says. "Time for you to decide if you're coming to this festival with me or not."

"What's it about, anyway?" he asks. "Do I want to go?"

"I'd say you do. It's a pop-culture thing, with books, music , movies, arts and so on. They do a theme every year, and I think this year's theme is pretty much tailor-made for us." He looks at her expectantly and she smiles. "It's Words."

"Words? As in…?"

She shrugs. "I don't really know, there's not a lot of information online. I guess we'll just have to go and see." She looks at him. "I'll have to sit through the opening speeches, but that probably won't last very long, and after that, I'm pretty much free to roam and experience the whole thing for myself, and you know, we can do that together. Unless you have work to do, and you'd rather stay here. Which is okay with me too, because if you have to work, you have to work."

Smirking, he listens to her ramble. "Do you want me to go?"

She smiles. "Yes, I want you to go."

"Then I'll go," he says simply and this grants him another kiss, this one less sweet but considerably longer; it wakes him up completely, down to the very last nerve and he suddenly becomes very aware of her weight and of the way she curves into him. His hands start a slow roam down her back and to her hips and he pulls her closer; she curls her hands in his hair and moves up slightly, sending vicious little waves of tingles across his body. In one hasty move, he flips her on her back, and starts pushing her shirt up in a rush.

"We have to go," she says breathlessly against his lips, but makes no attempt to stop him.

"We will," he says as he pulls the shirt over her head and then buries his face in her neck, reaching behind her back to unhook her bra. She arches up to help him, wildly thinking she can't be late for the press conference, but once his hand closes around her breast, her mind goes blank and there's just the awareness of fire his touch wakes inside her. His mouth returns to hers and the kiss wreaks havoc on her senses, but somewhere outside, a church sounds noon and her brain kicks in again.

"Jess, there's no time," she gasps against his lips, but there's no real conviction in her tone, and she lifts her hips obediently as he pulls on her jeans.

"How much time is no time, exactly?" he asks as he sits back on his heels and pulls the jeans off . "Give it to me in minutes."

"Ten, maybe fifteen," she says breathlessly.

The jeans are flung to the floor and he hovers over her for a second, just watching. "That's an eternity," he smirks, running his hand down her stomach, "and there's no better way to spend it than this."

….

The festival is set up in big colorful tents on the outskirts of town, and from a distance, it looks like a circus has come into town. From up close, it just looks cool – there are exhibitions and open air stages, and workshops and lectures taking place. The ambiguous Word theme turns out to incorporate literature, books, music and art which feature meaningful, popular or exceptional phrasing or writing styles, and he likes the concept and is looking forward to seeing how it's been implemented.

The whole thing lasts three days, and Jess figures all of this out as he examines the program brochure and sips a coffee on a bench while he waits for Rory's press conference to end. It's the first coffee of the day and thankfully, it's a really good one, and he got it in one of the smaller tents that holds several coffee shops. She said she'd meet him here before she rushed off to the opening conference after a somewhat hectic drive and hasty parking maneuver; he hopes that they still find the car where they left it once they're done here.

He's done with the brochure and he looks up again, and this time he sees her approaching, looking at the same brochure; she walks slowly, her huge bag dangling off her shoulder. She's dressed in jeans and a long sweater; they'd both left their jackets in the hotel in the morning rush, but it's warm out so it's just as well. She's remembered her beanie though, and now it sits on top of her head as the wind plays with her hair. As he watches her approach, Jess suddenly wants her again with such intensity that it's frightening, he wants her like last night or this morning never happened, and he has no idea where this unbelievable hunger for her comes from. It's like every time he touches her, instead of being gratified, this yearning increases exponentially, and he has no idea how far it can go.

She's smiling at the brochure and the smile is still there when she looks up and meets his eyes; it grows into a grin when she reaches him and sits down.

"Is it just my imagination or did you just undress me as I was walking over here?" she asks playfully.

"Several times over," he smirks and hands her a coffee.

"I love that," she says to her cup.

He laughs. "It's not really a new thing, you know. I think I've been doing it for as long as I've known you."

She looks at him with a smirk of her own. "I know. I've always loved it," she says casually.

Surprise registers on his face for a moment, but he shakes it off quickly. "So, what's the plan?"

"The plan?" she raises her eyebrows.

"Yes, the plan. You've digested that brochure on the way over here, and it goes without saying you've come up with a schedule of some sort," he smirks. "You know, the whats and the whens of today."

"No, I actually haven't," she says with a smile. Jess grins and looks up at the sky, frowning.

"What are you doing?" Rory asks suspiciously.

"Looking for the signs of apocalypse or something," he says, still staring up.

She kicks him in the ribs. "Funny. Now stop that." She looks back at the brochure. "We could just roam. Although…"

"Of course, although, or however," Jess smirks and empties his cup. "That's more like it."

"Shut up," she smiles. "I was going to say I wanted to check out this _Win a trip_ thing."

"A contest?"

Rory shrugs. "Sounds like it."

"What kind of contest?"

"It doesn't say. It just says Win a trip and tells you where to go."

"Maybe it's a swimsuit thing – Miss Word or something," he smirks. "Why do you even want to do this thing, anyway?"

"Because of the small print." He looks at her quizzically and she looks back to the brochure and reads: "Warning: Do not attempt unless you can claim you've spent a t least a third of your life reading anything you could lay your hands on, watching way too much television and listening to any music you came across. Seriously." She looks back at him. "Challenging, yes?"

He takes the brochure and frowns at the text. "Well, when they put it like that…"

"...there's no way to say no," she laughs and finishes her coffee.

Jess smirks and folds the brochure, then sticks it into his back pocket. "Okay, let's go see about this trip."

They find the right spot easily enough, and a girl behind the counter greets them with a smile.

"Hi," Rory says. "We want to win this trip of yours."

"Okay," the girl says and puts an empty basket on the counter. "Your phones and any other electronic gadgets go in here." They surrender their phones and are issued with a number to collect them, after which the girl hands them a binder and a pen. "This is a collection of quotes, lines and lyrics. Your job is to identify the books, movies, songs, people or organizations they come from. There is no order to the quotes, and if a certain quote comes from both a book and a movie, either answer is correct. There is no time limit, you're welcome to sit here all day if you want. Good luck," the girl says and points them toward an area to the side with two dozen tables.

Jess reaches for the papers and looks at the girl. "That's it?"

"That's it," the girl smiles. "But for the record, we only had two winners in the last ten years."

They choose not to linger on that particular piece of information; they just pick a table in the corner and sit down, but decide they need more coffee before they tackle the binder so Rory runs and gets some.

"I'm totally excited about this," she whispers when she comes back. "It's like I'm being tested on my life or something."

"Yeah, you're definitely one to get turned on by a pop-quiz," Jess smirks and pushes the pen towards her. "Here, you do the honors; I can barely read my own handwriting."

"You ready?" she asks breathlessly; her eyes sparkle and he wants to kiss her.

"Wow, you really want to win this trip – where to, exactly? We never asked," Jess laughs.

Rory shakes her head. "I don't care about the trip, I just want to see how much of this we can get right," she says and opens the binder.

"_The universe is, instant by instant, recreated anew. There is in truth no past, only a memory of the past. Blink your eyes, and the world you see next did not exist when you closed them. Therefore, the only appropriate state of the mind is surprise. The only appropriate state of the heart is joy. The sky you see now, you have never seen before. The perfect moment is now. Be glad of it."_

Jess looks at her. "Any ideas?"

She shakes her head. "None. I mean, it's a great quote, but doesn't ring any bells. You?"

Jess shakes his head. "No, me neither."

"Not a great start, huh?" Rory says.

He smirks. "Just move on."

"_Above the planet on a wing and a prayer,  
My grubby halo, a vapor trail in the empty air,  
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly  
Out of the corner of my watering eye  
A dream unthreatened by the morning light  
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night."_

Jess laughs. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. This is Pink Floyd."

"You're sure?" she looks at him.

"Just write it down," he smirks. She does.

"_Without rules, we all might as well be up in a tree flinging our crap at each other."_

Jess laughs. "I have no idea where this is from but I love it..._ flinging crap_..."

Rory shakes her head. "Yeah, me either."

_"he considered a moment. 'no,' he said, and shook his head. 'i'll tell you why. if she was in the city i'd have seen her. you take a man that likes to walk, a man like me, a man's been walking in the streets going on ten or twelve years, and all those years he's got his eye out for one person, and nobody's ever her, don't it stand to reason she's not there? i see pieces of her all the time, a flat little botton, any skinny girl that walks too fast and straight-' he paused, as thought too aware of how intently i was looking at him. 'you think i'm round the bend?''"_

"This is Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's," Rory smiles excitedly.

"Very good, Miss Gilmore!" Jess smirks, and she throws him a dirty look.

_"I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries."_

"Monty Python and the Flying Circus," they announce together, both laughing.

_"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard too handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."_

Rory smiles. "I have no idea who said this, but I agree."

"It was definitely a woman," Jess smiles back.

She gives him a dangerous look. "Meaning?"

He shrugs. "Just that a guy probably wouldn't say something like that."

"Right." She still looks suspicious, but brushes it off. "Can you name this woman?"

"Sadly, no," he smirks.

_"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square hole. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do."_

"Okay, this is familiar but I can't place it." Jess frowns. "Sounds like advertising."

"That's because it is," Rory smiles. "It's from an Apple campaign," she explains and writes the answer down triumphantly.

_"In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."_

"Douglas Adams," says Jess.

"Yes, that would be my guess too, The Hitchhiker' guide."

Jess frowns. "It's from the series, but I think this is from the second book, _The Restaurant at the end of the universe."_

"How sure are you?" she asks with a smile.

"It's just a gut feeling," he shrugs.

"Okay, since I don't have one, we'll go with yours," Rory says and writes the title down.

_"Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don't blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being "in love", which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident."_

"You think this is true?" Rory asks.

Jess smirks at her. "Probably."

She looks at the quote again. "Somehow, it makes me sad."

"You'd rather the fireworks last forever?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, it just gives me a sense of losing something."

"Yeah, but maybe you gain something else. You can't really know until you experience it."

She smiles. "Yeah, I guess not."

He looks at her and there's still a somewhat distant look in her face; he smirks slightly and takes her hand. "Hey, did you maybe notice that really old couple playing checkers or whatever when we arrived at the hotel yesterday?"

She laughs. "The little grandma and grandpa? Sure, they were adorable."

He nods. "Yeah, they were.. And even though I can't really picture him …_kissing every cranny of her body_ – and I wouldn't really want to, anyway – they seemed like they totally nailed the _art and fortunate accident_. They seemed pretty happy to me." He shrugs. "And you know, maybe that's the ultimate success, really. To be eighty and still want to play checkers with someone you've spent your entire life with."

She just looks at him for a long time and says nothing, partly because she really can't find the words, and partly because she can't believe those few sentences came out of his mouth, delivered without an ounce of cynicism and sarcasm. For the first time, she wonders if maybe the whole hell they went through was worth it, just for the sake of those few lines.

"Okay, so let's dispense with the philosophical discussions and get back to the more mundane details," he smirks when he feels the stare get a little too deep for comfort. "Do you recognize this at all?"

She shakes her head. "No. But I totally want to know where it came from."

He laughs. "Then memorize it and we'll google it later; for now, let's move on."

_"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."_

She looks at him inquisitively. "The usual suspects?"

Jess nods. "The usual suspects, definitely. Kevin Spacey is a god."

"_Though I know that evening's empire has returned into sand  
Vanished from my hand  
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping  
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet  
I have no one to meet  
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming."_

"I have no idea," Jess says flatly.

"Bob Dylan, Mr. Tambourine man," Rory smiles.

"Okay, so …folk music. No wonder I'm lost," Jess laughs.

"If you make an effort to look past the folk music bit, you'd see this guy is actually a poet," Rory points out and looks back at the paper. "Okay, last one."

"And so fitting, too," Jess smirks at the quote.

_"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."_

Rory looks at the quote and then back up at Jess. "I have no idea."

He nods. "Shocking."

"You're smiling, so I take it you know."

"I do," he grins.

She squints at him. "You're totally gloating that I don't recognize this..." she sighs and shakes her head "…which means, it must be Hemingway."

He laughs. "Oh, so you do know."

"Not the quote," she rolls her eyes. "But your Hemingway face I can recognize."

She writes down the answer and flips the page. "Oh wait, there's something else here…"

_If by some incredible karmic fortune you actually win this trip, where would you like to go?_

Jess looks at her. "So, where would you like to go? Since we're definitely going to win this," he smirks.

"I don't know, anywhere, everywhere… I don't really care. I sort of want to see everything," she laughs. "How about you?"

"Cuba," he smirks. "I want to see Cuba while Castro is still alive. Once he dies, it won't be the same country anymore."

She smiles and nods. "Sure, Cuba. Why not?" She writes the answer down and frowns at him. "Should I add the Castro being alive condition?"

Jess laughs. "I don't know…maybe. Who knows how long it takes them to go through these tests? This pop-quiz thing seems to be pretty popular," he adds, looking around at the tables that have filled up almost completely.

Rory smiles back but ultimately decides not to condition their traveling plans on Castro's presence in the living world, and they stand up and return to the counter where their test gets stamped and put in the box; their phones are returned and they're issued with a receipt and instructions to check for results at the festival website within two weeks.

"I wish we got to keep a copy," she sighs as they walk away.

Jess smirks. "Why? So you can rush online and check how well we did?"

She elbows him gently. "Because I want to know where that quote comes from."

He laughs. "I'm sure you'll come across it eventually."

Suddenly she stops and looks at him. "Oh my God, I just put it together. Cuba? Is this another Hemingway thing?"

He shakes his head. "Actually, no. It's a Cuba thing. It has nothing to do with Hemingway." She looks at him suspiciously. "Seriously," he laughs. "I like his books, but I don't quite feel the urge to go and gawk at his house or something."

She starts walking again and takes him by the hand. "Is it the way he said?_ All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed?_"

He shrugs. "It is for me."

* * *

_Uncredited quotes:_

"_The universe is, instant by instant, recreated anew. There is in truth no past, only a memory of the past. Blink your eyes, and the world you see next did not exist when you closed them. Therefore, the only appropriate state of the mind is surprise. The only appropriate state of the heart is joy. The sky you see now, you have never seen before. The perfect moment is now. Be glad of it." (Terry Pratchett, The Thief of Time)_

"_Without rules, we all might as well be up in a tree flinging our crap at each other." (That 70s Show)_

_"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard too handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." (Marilyn Monroe)_

_"Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don't blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being "in love", which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident." (Louis de Bernières, Captain Corelli's Mandolin)_

_

* * *

A/N:  
_

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	24. History

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**24. History**

The sun is in its last hour of the day, lazily approaching the hazy line on the horizon where the sky melts into the ocean in a kaleidoscope of gray, blue and purple, and its brightness dissolves softly into a veiled mist that is an indefinite color of distance. It is the hour of silence, when the world gradually stills and sounds disappear slowly, and it seems like even a smallest whisper, if uttered, would somehow resonate like a shout and irreversibly desecrate this holy serenity of nature.

There is a picture of this scene in their room; they'd been talking, and laughing, and kissing and making love under it for three days now, but no paint can do justice to the green that is this thick carpet of grass under their feet, the pale purple that is the sky overhead or the soft blue that is the ocean that stretches ahead in front of them. No brush can capture the abrupt, precise angle that cuts at the cliffs and sends them crashing into the white-crested waves that beat against them in an eternal fight between ocean and rock, and no talent can ever catch the notes of the music the wind composes as it rushes over the grass, disappearing over the hills.

They'd wandered to this spot in aimless exploration sometime in the afternoon; they'd found this flat piece of rock nestled in the grass. It was warm after a day-long caress of the sun, and they'd made it their own for the few remaining hours of the day as they sat on it still and mostly silent, letting the wind run over their faces, sitting together, entwined, just feeling each other and the space around them, watching the day end.

"I feel so small," Rory says quietly as the sun touches the sea and the first stars appear overhead.

"You are small," Jess mutters somewhere in her hair; his nose is cold and she can feel it against her temple, but his breath is warm against her ear. She wraps her fingers in his and chuckles.

"I meant small as in insignificant," she continues. "Like I could disappear right now and nothing would change. This moment, this place… it would be no less glorious."

"Well, it would be somewhat less glorious from where I sit," he smirks.

She smiles lazily. "You would have a better view without my head blocking it," she offers rationally.

"True," he admits. "Also, my arms probably wouldn't be asleep and my back would hurt less without you using me as an armchair, but still… the moment would be less," he says softly.

She smiles ahead and says nothing, silently thanking whatever force governs the universe for this moment, for the feel of his arms around her, for the peace in her heart, for the perfect three days behind them and sends a wordless prayer into the horizon, humbly asking for more of the same once they leave this place tomorrow and get back to the lives they left somewhere to the east. She's not sure what it is, is it just the fact that they're older, or the factor of time, or the fact that they're so far from home, or is it just that it's the two of them – she really doesn't know what it was that made this moment possible, such as it is, so perfect and so very real, and yet so incredible that every few seconds she wonders if she's dreaming. There's a binder miles away under her bed, in a shoebox that holds her memories and fantasies, a binder full of wishes laid out secretly in ink, describing this moment she's living now, and she briefly wonders if there's really anything left to wish for and what happens after dreams come true.

She feels him move behind her; he shifts her weight from his chest to his shoulder and reaches into his pocket. Smoke drifts in front of her eyes a moment later, followed by the cigarette smell, and she thinks again it's strange that it doesn't bother her when he smokes, and although she knows he should give it up, for some strange reason, she doesn't really want him to.

"Jess…"

"Hmmm…" he murmurs and laces his fingers with hers again.

"Are you happy?" she asks quietly, staring at the sky; its color is changing into darker grays and it holds a promise of rain ahead.

"Right now? Yes," he says simply.

The determination of moment is puzzling, and she frowns. "And generally?"

He sucks on the cigarette and sends a hoop of smoke towards the sky, watching it dissolve against the wind. He's happy now, in this moment, under this sky, with her; he was happy yesterday and the day before; he's actually been happy ever since that historic night when they'd fallen asleep together alongside Matt's earth-shattering snores. Put together, that is more happiness than he'd felt in the last few years combined, but somehow, he's reluctant to adopt it as a general state of mind. He'd been happy with her before, and she'd been happy with him, yet it still wasn't enough to keep them from breaking each other into pieces. She stiffens against him slightly as the silence grows longer; he doesn't really feel it happen as much as he senses a change within her, and he draws her closer to counter the chill that creeps between them.

"Generally, I'm cautiously optimistic," he smirks next to her ear.

A rush of wind comes over the grass, and the sun dips further into the sea; her head turns and her forehead cradles into the side of his neck.

"I'm happy," she says quietly, but there's a hint of sadness in her voice; it almost sounds like she's apologizing. Somehow, he finds this fitting, like it's perfectly justified for this happiness of hers to be tainted and incomplete simply because they're not really sharing it, and still, just by mentioning it, it's like she's knocked on a door within him that he's not ready to open yet. This moment, right now, yesterday, the days before – they've been perfect, to the point of feeling like he's living someone else's life, a life that might have been his, but really wasn't, and there's a determined skeptic buried somewhere within him that reminds him of this possibility as soon as he gets too comfortable and relaxes too much. And maybe the skeptic is right, and that's why that door within stays closed, because it's the last barrier, it's the one that will keep him sane if this happiness proves as fickle and as temperamental as it did before. It stays closed because there's still things he doesn't quite understand or quite believe, he's not even sure which of the two it is – but it's there nonetheless.

"Why did you come," his voice trails by her ear, following the smoke," to Philadelphia?"

She stares at another smoke hoop float ahead into the disappearing sun and with a weird sense of calmness, she notices her heart stop and her blood cool. She looks at her fingers wrapped around his hand and she absent-mindedly opens his fist and runs her thumb over his palm, wishing she knew the right answer to this million-dollar question. The palm offers no clues; neither do the stars when she looks up again, waiting for another wave of smoke to drift by. She knows there really is no right or wrong answer; there is just the truth, but the truth is strangely unremarkable in this case, and somehow seems too plain to pin the future on. It's too simple, and this simplicity makes it difficult to believe.

"I wish I knew what it is you want to hear," she sighs into the sky.

"The truth," he says quietly. "Just the truth, whatever it is."

She shakes her head. "You won't believe it," she says categorically.

"You're very sure about that," he mutters into her hair.

"Yes, I am," she smiles sadly.

"How come?"

She runs her palm against his and laces their fingers together again. "Because it wildly contradicts everything else I did, or said, at that time," she says softly, "or even before that time. It contradicts most of the things I ever did, or said, when it comes to you."

He puts the cigarette out on the rock and folds his arm around her. "I still want to hear it," he says simply. "Why did you come?"

The sun is gone and lightning strikes in the distance; it pierces the sky like a burning needle and vanishes in a flash of silver, and Rory wonders if its appearance holds some deeper meaning.

"Once I decided to go, I told myself I was doing it because it was your book, and it was a big thing. I wanted to witness that. I also told myself we were friends, kind of, and I owed you that much. I told myself I was going because I was angry with Logan, and in some weird way, I thought I would get back at him by going. Just by going," she points out very clearly, "nothing else. I told myself I was going to thank you for knocking all that long overdue sense in my head when you came to Hartford. I told myself it was out of curiosity, to see what your life was like in Philadelphia. There was a whole list of reasons…" she trails off.

"All perfectly valid," Jess points out with a smirk.

She nods. "Yes, all valid… none really true," she sighs. "I didn't really figure out the real reason I was there until I actually faced you."

She stops here, and it's an abrupt halt; the silence beats long seconds, but Jess lets it stretch, staring over her head into the dusk that settles around them in hues of purple and gray. It seems like he's waited for an eternity to hear her say things she's preparing to say, and another minute, or ten, or an hour, really don't mean anything. He's not sure if hearing this story will make any real difference, he's not sure if it can change anything, he couldn't even explain why he asked the question in the first place – the words genuinely caught him by surprise when they rolled of his tongue. On some level, it's like chasing windmills, but something happened between them that day that had never happened before, something different, something he can't name or pinpoint, but it sprouted into existence then and it stayed with him, it had been with him ever since, and he wonders if maybe she knows what it is, maybe she can identify it for both of them. In a weird way, it's not even about whether he can believe what she says or not; it's about whether or not he recognizes this unidentified force in her experience as well.

"The truth is, I just wanted to see _you_", she finally says. "Not Truncheon, not the book signing, not the party, not your life… just you." She frowns and shakes her head. "And when I walked into that place and saw you there… it was like, for the first time, I saw you… complete. You had somehow become everything I always knew you could be, and it made perfect sense for you to be at that place, doing what you were doing, it all just fit perfectly, and it was like all the puzzle pieces had finally come together. It felt great to see that." She sighs. "But seeing _you… _it made me realize that you were more real to me than anything else in my life, and suddenly I knew that's why I was there, for that feeling. I felt more alive being in that room with you than I had felt in a long time. And in that moment, I knew that I'd been living this huge lie, and that it was you that I'd been missing. I also knew I should turn around and leave, because my head was in such a mess, but I just couldn't make my legs move in the right direction, or at all, and I just planted myself in that chair and hid inside your book. I had no idea what to do with all those feelings, I just wanted to reign them in somehow and then disappear without making a scene, and go somewhere and sort of… re-invent myself."

Another lightning flash brightens the sky, and this time a distant roll of thunder follows, like nature's encore for the next chapter in her story.

"Things just sort of went from bad to worse after that," she continues when the noise overhead dissolves. "We talked, and you were you, and with every word out of your mouth, I just lost myself more and more, it was just too easy and felt too natural after so much time. You seemed… so together and I was falling apart… and then there was that kiss." She sighs. "I was so unprepared for that kiss, and I still have no idea how it happened, whether it was you or me, but it was suddenly happening and with it, something happened within me… I don't know how to describe it, I still don't know how to describe it. There were so many feelings inside, and the weird thing is, they were always there, I always had them for you, but at that moment, they just rushed forth and I couldn't hold them back, and that's when I realized that I'd always been doing that, holding them back, ever since I met you."

"And then you said you were in love," he mutters, "just not with me."

Rain chooses this moment to intervene and lays a soft, misty drizzle over the grass; the sky and the ocean dissolve like watercolors in front of Rory's eyes, and shapes transform into blurry stains on the horizon.

"We should go," Jess says and pushes her up; once on her feet, she turns around and grabs a hold of his hand, pulling him back towards her.

"I'm not done," she says breathlessly. "I need you to understand."

"I'll understand just as well back at the room, I promise," he smirks, but she shakes her head and doesn't let go.

"No, we'll do this now," she says and wipes her face. "It's just rain, remember?"

He relaxes into her hand, and she lets go of him with a sigh of relief. He briefly wonders if she was actually worried he was going to leave. He lodges his hands in his pockets and peers into her face, acknowledging the frown and the anxious expression, and suddenly feels sorry that last remark escaped him. She'd already answered his question, and he finally understands what it was that happened that night and made such a burning impression that no amount of alcohol or other women could erase – in that kiss, for the briefest of moments, he had experienced all of her for the first time. Everything before that had just been hints, bits and pieces scattered here and there, but in that one moment, he'd had her fully, the way she's been in these last few weeks, but never before that Truncheon kiss.

The drizzle is turning into rain, and he watches her cross her hands on her chest and feels guilty for throwing that ill-fated lie in her face again.

"I shouldn't have dragged that out again," he says softly. "Just forget about it and let's go."

She shakes her head and smiles sadly. "It was self-preservation. Everything inside me was in chaos, my whole life was suddenly devoid of meaning, everything I'd been doing up to that point was suddenly pointless and everything I believed was suddenly wrong beyond description. The extraordinary thing is that, in that moment, for the first time in my life I actually knew what I wanted, I knew it with such clarity that it was unbelievable."

He frowns, confused. "Well, you definitely chose a strange way to demonstrate this... epiphany. Strip away all the social graces and superb Gilmore breeding, you basically ran away screaming."

She sighs. "You're right, I did. Everything that I could have possibly done wrong after that kiss, I did wrong, there's no question about that. But I did it because this… epiphany… came from a place within me that I didn't recognize. It had nothing to do with my head, nothing even with my heart, not in the first instance. It came from somewhere… in my gut, somewhere basic, it was like an instinct that kicked in and it knocked out everything else, and I had no idea how or why it came to be, I had no idea how to handle it, so I handled it in the stupidest way possible. I ran, and ran with the most idiotic, hurtful excuse I could have possibly picked." She pauses and shrugs. "It's just that - at that one moment, when I realized it was you I wanted, I thought I had lost you already."

He looks at the rain on her face, and it somehow makes her skin glow in the dark, pale and porcelain-like, a perfect frame for the shine in her eyes and the truth mirrored there.

"I was right there," he says softly. "All you had to do was reach. Right then, or at any moment later."

She smiles sadly. "I'd reached for a dream once before. I thought I did everything right, I gave it all I had, and then had it crushed right in front of my eyes. I stole a yacht after that and effectively ruined my life." She sighs. "I just wasn't sure I could survive something like that again, and the stakes were so much higher this time. So again, I chose the easier thing… I just sort of decided I'd rather… just look at the stars than try to reach for them and have to watch them disappear."

She wipes her face again, although it's a somewhat futile effort because the rain is getting heavier; now it makes her hair stick to her face, and he suddenly remembers how she once stood under a sprinkler gone haywire and refused to let him fix it. It's an ancient scene, and so many others came between then and now; somehow, it's as everything is different and yet nothing's really changed. In spite of all the mistakes and the wrong choices, in spite of all running and hiding and hurt, they somehow managed to end up together in this moment, and for the first time, he really suspects there must be something at work here that is larger than them.

"That night at the supermarket," her voice comes slowly, "you never smiled once, and I thought I'd seen the stars disappear."

He steps closer, and she catches a smile forming in his eyes. "Really? I thought they'd never looked brighter," he smirks and folds his arms around her.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	25. Snapshots

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**25. Snapshots**

Rory wakes up late and lazy; the tempting smell of coffee drifts around the apartment, mixing with the soft sound of typing. She opens her eyes and finds Jess sitting at the desk, frowning at the laptop screen in concentration as his fingers fly over the keyboard. His coffee and cigarettes are close at hand, but apparently completely forgotten, because the ashtray is empty and she's pretty certain the coffee has probably grown cold too. It's going to be one of those days.

She found it strange, at first, this writing rhythm of his – there is no regularity to it at all, as opposed to the reading he does for Truncheon. The reading happens on a daily basis, and he does it effortlessly; the writing occurs haphazardly to say the least, in random intervals, at any given time or place, and when it does, he almost turns into a ghost. It's like his mind somehow drifts into an entirely different dimension, and the part of him that remains in this one is just a shell, a piece of décor that has no real function. Places, sounds, people, circumstances, he ignores them all. He'd told her about this, but she didn't really understand the full scope of it until one afternoon they'd decided to go somewhere (she can't really remember where anymore) and boarded a tram; within several stations, the laptop came out of the bag, and they'd ended up riding in circles for hours. After the second time around, she wondered if she should maybe just go back home and leave him there, but didn't really want to, so she'd just pulled out her book and disappeared into a dimension of her own.

It's not really that he can't be snapped out of it; she could interrupt him if she wanted or needed to, but she never does; she did it once, in the beginning, over something meaningless (was it a movie? a concert?) and although he didn't hold it against her, he'd been cranky and somewhat snappish afterward, much like Lorelai when her afternoon nap is cut short, and she'd never disturbed him after that.

She rolls over on her back and stretches, wondering how long he'll be gone for – same as with the sporadic choices of time and place, there are no rules to the lengths of these writing sprees, and she briefly wonders how long he's been sitting there. He's wearing a frown and pajamas, and for a while she just lies there and watches him, listening absentmindedly as his fingers rush over the keyboard in a consistent, steady rhythm. It's another peculiar thing about his writing – he never stops. There is no staring at the screen, no wondering what comes next, no pauses… he just types, and she often wonders if he edits at some point. She'd never seen him do it.

She glances towards the window and watches the rain flow down the panes, and suddenly realizes she doesn't really want to get out of bed yet. Briefly she wonders what the time is, but quickly decides she doesn't really care, and she purposefully avoids the clock as she reaches for her book. Before she opens it, she glances at Jess again and smiles, thinking she wouldn't mind waking up to this scene for a long while... maybe the rest of her life.

….

"I'm naming them," Rory says stubbornly, pushing her plate away.

Jess rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine, name them," he smirks and reaches for his beer. "Although I completely fail to see the point."

"Fail to see the point?" she repeats incredulously and shakes her head. "For one thing, it's practical."

He laughs. "Practical how?"

"Practical as in, I could say: _hmm__, I think …Topsy could use some water_, as opposed to saying: _hey, that huge palm-resembling bush in the blue pot needs watering_," she explains evenly, pointing at the row of plants by the window. "The name makes for a much shorter, clearer sentence. Therefore - practical."

His eyebrows lift. "Topsy?"

She shrugs, fighting back a smile. "It kind of looks like Topsy."

"A plant looks like a literary character?" He grins widely, shaking his head.

Rory sighs. "Well, obviously it doesn't really _look_ like Topsy, but…"

"… seeing as Topsy is a black slave girl and everything…" he interjects mischievously, and goes back to the beer quickly as she throws him a dirty look.

"You know, for someone who claims to be completely indifferent to these plants, you're really making a big deal about Topsy," she remarks with a smirk of her own. "I'm sensing some emotional attachment here. Come to think of it, didn't I hear you talking to them the other day?"

He burst out laughing. "You're delusional."

"I mean, I know I'm new here and therefore intruding on your routine to some degree, but I'll do my best to fit in, and you know, try not to disrupt this wonderful thing you have going… the conversations, the watering rituals and what not…" she trails off innocently.

"Watering rituals?" He shakes his head and starts clearing the plates. "The only watering rituals that went on here were the ones when I had a glass of water sitting out on the desk for a while and it was convenient to dump it in one of the pots," he smirks and takes the plates into the kitchen. "If that qualifies, then yes, me and the plants, we've got rituals."

"Wow, that must have been really hard on Anastasia," she says sadly and follows him into the kitchen with the leftover pasta. She puts the pan on the counter and finds him staring at her quizzically. "The spathyphyllum," she explains solemnly, pointing to the small plant at the end of the line. "They need a lot of water. Like to have their leaves sprinkled, too."

He can't help a smile. "Fictional characters and Russian royalty," he smirks at her. "You know, I actually can't wait to hear what you come up with next."

She laughs and starts rinsing out the plates; Jess watches her for a while, then stands behind her and wraps his hands around her waist.

"The tall one in the corner," he mumbles into her hair, "I want to call it Nick."

She smiles and slowly nods her head.

….

Rory hauls a laundry basket out of the bathroom and drops it on the sofa; she then settles next to it and starts folding the clean clothes. Two neat heaps quickly rise on the coffee table, and she softly hums to the music on TV as she puts one item on top of the other, dividing them between Jess's pile and her own. Half way through, her brain disengages from the music and she suddenly realizes how much clothes she has here; this somehow comes as a surprise, and she tries to remember how and when it came to be. She can't, but as she looks around the room, she notices other things as well – there are at least a dozen of her books strewn about, half of the magazines on the coffee table are hers as well, and several pairs of her shoes are piled up next to Jess's on the hallway floor. She takes it all in slowly, and gradually becomes aware that a big part of her life had somehow shifted into this space, unnoticed. She suddenly wonders if he's aware of this. She stops folding and looks towards the armchair.

Jess is watching her over the laptop in his lap, a peculiar little smile on his face. "I think you need a closet," he says with a trademark smirk.

Her heart skips in tune with the music and she smiles. "I'd like a closet," she proclaims cautiously, watching him carefully.

"Any one in particular that you have your eye on?" he grins, waving his hand around.

She shakes her head. "I don't care." She smiles wider. "As long as it's here."

…

"So, there's this party Friday night at my office," she finally blurts out during a commercial break, having cast worried glances his way through the first half of _House._

He flips through a few channels, saying nothing, and she begins to fidget, then gets slightly annoyed at the impassive look on his face.

"I'm not wearing a tie or anything else of that nature," he warns determinedly.

She smiles, wrestling the remote away from him, and finds _House_ again.

…

Jess wakes up to a strange feeling of loneliness after an uneasy dream that he can't recall once he's out of it. Instinctively, he reaches over to her side of the bed, but finds it cool and bare, and it's enough for his eyes to snap open. There's a full moon shining through the window, and quickly he confirms she's not where she's supposed to be; he cranes his neck and peers through the bookcase, noticing the small reading lamp is on in the living room.

He finds her curled up under a blanket on the sofa; her arm is propped on the pillow and she leans her head against it as she reads. He walks over and reclines against the armchair, crossing his hands on his chest, and although he makes no attempt to be quiet, she's completely oblivious to him, just like she's always oblivious to the world when she reads.

"It's 3am," he says softly.

The words startle her and she jumps slightly before she smiles at him. "I thought the light might bother you so I came here."

"It's 3am," he repeats with a smirk. "You have to get up at 7."

She sighs and looks at the book. "I know, but the English are attacking, and George Washington only has a hand-full of men."

He grins, shaking his head in amazement, then slowly walks over to the sofa and drops down next to her. "It's 3am," he whispers and takes the book away from her; it's thick and heavy, and the title reads _New York _in bold letters. He marks the page she's on, sets the book on the coffee table and stands up. "You'll thank me tomorrow," he smirks at the frown on her face and pulls her up after him.

"Did I mention the English were attacking?" she yawns as she follows him to the bed.

He laughs. "They'll still be attacking tomorrow afternoon," he says casually, "and you won't be struggling to keep your eyes open then."

She crawls into bed after him and throws her hand over him as she settles against his shoulder. "You're right," she mumbles into his chest. "And it's really annoying."

He laughs out loud and holds her closer.

...

"Do you sometimes get the feeling that they just don't make good movies anymore?" Rory asks exasperatedly as they leave the theatre.

Jess opens the umbrella and they start down the street. "After just having irrecoverably lost two hours of my life on something as stupid as this, I'm tempted to say yes," he smirks.

"I actually feel kind of brain damaged," Rory complains and hooks her arm under his, sidestepping a puddle. "That was such a waste of time and money, not to mention nerves," she sighs.

"We could have walked out," he points out with a chuckle.

"Yeah, but at the time, I was sort of transfixed; in some twisted way, I actually wanted to know if it could get any worse…"

"…and with each next scene, it actually did," Jess laughs.

She nods, then shakes her head. "I can't remember the last time I went to a theatre and saw a really good movie, " she says regretfully.

"We saw _Citizen Kane_ just last week," he reminds her innocently.

She rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"You just feel that way because of tonight's disaster," he smiles. "There have been some good movies lately."

"Name one, " she challenges.

"How recent are we talking?" he asks, frowning.

She laughs. "Definitely more recent than _Citizen Kane_," she says playfully, then shrugs. "I don't know, the last few years."

He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "I liked _Crazy Heart_," he says after a while, then smiles as he steals a glance at her and sees her grimace; there's an inner struggle going on under the cringe and he wonders how it will turn out.

"Okay, so there was one," she admits grudgingly.

He laughs. "There were more," he says with conviction. "You want me to keep going?"

She shrugs, and he pulls her across the street quickly. "_Inglorious Basterds _was pretty good, in a twisted, Tarantino kind of way. _The Hangover_ was hilarious…"

She shakes her head. "Okay, yeah, there were some… entertaining movies. But none of these were…" she looks for the right word for a moment, "…meaningful."

He mulls this over briefly, then stops walking and looks at her. "Have you seen _The Cove_?"

Her face pales and she nods slowly. "Point taken," she says quietly. "You win."

He can't really be happy about that now that she looks so nauseous. "You should take it with a grain of salt, you know," he says softly, feeling sorry he's upset her, and they start walking again.

"I know," she nods, "but if only a small percentage of that movie is true, it's still sickening. It's dolphins. It's like slaughtering… pets, or something."

He shrugs. "The western world probably does the same thing with cows," he points out.

"With the same level of cruelty?" she challenges.

"I don't know," he admits, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "And neither do you."

"Are you seriously trying to justify what happens in that movie?" she asks, bewildered.

"No," he shakes his head. "I'm just trying to refrain from being judgmental. After all, it only shows one side of the story," he points out.

"Yeah, it does," she agrees and folds her arm around his waist. "But it's a profoundly sad and disturbing side," she says quietly.

He smiles and notices a video store ahead. "Come on," he chuckles, pointing it out to her, "let's go and pick out something that will restore both your damaged brain cells and your faith in humanity."

She smiles and wants to say she loves him.

…

He'd first come to terms with it all in his head when she spent the first night in a week at her apartment, and he spent the evening wandering between the terrace and the living room, feeling ridiculously out of place and restless, uncertain what to do with himself. He thought of going out, but it seemed pointless; there was really nowhere he wanted to go, so he'd written emails, watched some television and tried to read, but the silence was so loud and the space so empty around him that he finally gave up and crawled into bed. He'd slept badly, and missed the nightly fight over the blankets, the morning clatter of cups that signaled she was making coffee and the sound of the shower running that he usually woke up to.

In the morning, he'd made coffee, sat out on the terrace and made a conscious and pointed effort to remember how he'd spent his days before she'd re-entered his life. He'd thought of walking around the city, he'd thought of concerts, exhibitions, clubs, books, movies and work; he'd remembered feeling pretty good about it all, pretty content and comfortable. Yet looking back on it all, that life seems to have somehow gone on in black and white, and once she came into it, it gradually shifted into full-color, and he knows that now, having seen all the hues, tints and nuances, there's no way he could go back to that monochromatic reality and be satisfied there.

This truth comes easily and naturally, but curiously, it doesn't make him flinch or panic, it doesn't scare him or bring anxiety, or make him wonder what happens if somewhere down the road this paradise he'd stumbled into turns into hell once again. He just doesn't care, he realizes, somewhat baffled; he doesn't care because he feels it will have been worth any future misery to have lived through this happiness that is the present.

That afternoon, he's reading through new material from Truncheon when he hears the key turn in the door and he watches her come in and kick off her shoes before she walks over and greets him with a kiss and a smile. She then retreats and sits down on the bed; he spins his chair around from the desk and examines the anxious look on her face.

"So, I don't want to do this again," she says somewhat hesitantly, looking up at him.

His heart skips a beat and he slides his chair towards the bed. "Me neither," he says simply and finds her hands.

A radiant smile breaks on her face and the anxiety is wiped away. "I had a really lousy evening and a horrible night," she sighs.

"Me too," he admits with a smirk .

"Good," she murmurs and leans her forehead against his.

He grins. "I've made dinner," he informs her proudly.

She looks up at him. "I hope it will hold," she whispers and reclines into the bed, pulling him after her.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	26. The Visitor

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and special thanks and warm fuzzy feelings to all the reviewers :o)

* * *

**26. The Visitor**

_It's a peculiar thing, balance...just when you think you've got the hang of it, just when you finally dare hope you've found the ideal spot and struck a perfect pose somewhere up on the thin wire that hangs suspended miles above the ground… just at that precise moment, a furtive rush of wind slips under your feet, and within seconds, you're stumbling, crashing, falling… _

_Sometimes, the wind can make this happen. Sometimes, a storm. And sometimes, someone pushes you._

_The end result is always the same, though – you find yourself in the ditch of your own private hell, every bone broken, staring up into that perfect spot on the wire that looks like the thinnest line of thread from the bottom of this abyss, knowing that once again, you have to get up and climb back up there… knowing it will take another eternity to reach that spot again. And when you do…_

…_another rush of wind. A storm. A push._

_The winds, the storms… those are forces of nature. They can't be controlled. But being pushed… _

Jess stops typing and stares at the screen. How many times is enough, really? He shuts the laptop forcefully and rubs his eyes, feeling completely empty and numb, defeated and disillusioned, but most of all, angry… angry, angry with himself because he'd always known it was coming, because he set himself up for this particular fall, because he could have avoided it, but he just – didn't. He opens another beer.

He looks outside and the sunshine comes as a shock; it's offending and intrusive, out-of-place and flaunting, like it's there just in spite of him, and it somehow seems almost sacrilegious that the day should still be as bright and as warm as it was at noon, when the world was still right and whole, and not shattered in pieces around him.

It was such a cozy scene, the way the two of them walked down the street, arm in arm; Jess could almost hear them laughing from where he stood. They moved slowly and looked perfect together – relaxed and comfortable; it took them a small eternity to cover the short distance to her office building. Then came the hug – it was tight, and it seemed to last a lifetime, and it was lifetime spent in hell for Jess as he watched it happen, rooted to the spot under a huge oak tree across the street, gripping the two plastic cups filled with steaming coffee. They burned his palms; he didn't notice. He didn't really notice anything except that never-ending hug, and it stayed imprinted in his mind even after they'd pulled apart; he still saw it clearly as Rory disappeared into the building and he watched the blond-haired yuppie disappear down the street. At the moment, he was just too numb to even hate him.

Not anymore; he hates him now, but not for the obvious reasons – he mostly hates him because he's part of the world that is Rory's world too, the world of tuxedos and Ivy League and Emily Gilmores, the world Jess had never inhabited and never would. And it's perfectly normal for her to feel comfortable there – after all, it's home. He hates him for that, but he hates himself more for letting it come to this, for setting himself up for another disaster… but why did it have to come in the form of this guy, he thinks bitterly, why does it have to be this spineless moron he loses her to?

The key turns in the door and in she comes, cradling a thick blue binder. She throws her bag down on the sofa and smiles at him sweetly; before he can get his bearings, she plants a small kiss on his lips and he suddenly feels sick, but nausea shifts to fury in the next heartbeat.

"You're really something, you know," he growls scornfully and brushes past her, aiming for the fridge.

She follows, still holding the thick blue binder. "Something?" she repeats, confused.

He turns away from the fridge, opening another beer bottle. "Something," he confirms, and raises the bottle to her. "As in, a real piece of work."

"If that's supposed to be a compliment, you should really work on the delivery," she smiles uncertainly.

"Oh yes, definitely a compliment," he laughs, but it's a strange, choked sound. "After all, not many people can do what you can."

Something's not right here, and several empty beer bottles scattered around various surfaces bear silent witness to that. "How many of those have you had?" she points at the beer, wondering where this sudden contempt is coming from.

"Not nearly enough," he laughs again, shaking his head. "But hey, the day is still young," he shrugs.

She looks at him cautiously, suddenly realizing she's being stared down by the teenage version of him, with the derisive tone to match; it's a combination she hasn't seen in years but she recognizes it instantly, and takes a deep breath.

"Did something happen?" she asks quietly, frowning slightly.

He shrugs. "You tell me," he says flatly and takes a swig; it's a big one and she frowns harder.

"Well, clearly, you're upset," she says calmly. "I'm hoping eventually you'll decide to tell me why."

He squints at her. "Really?" There's a challenge hidden in the question; the look in his eyes turns menacing and a wave of shivers runs down her spine, but she nods nonetheless.

He shakes his head and laughs to himself, then slowly walks into the living room and drops into the armchair. She turns around and clutches the binder tighter to her chest, suddenly overwhelmed with a weird sense of foreboding that she can't shake off as she watches him silently stare at the window for a while.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" he says absentmindedly. "Has been ever since I woke up." She doesn't know how to respond to that, so she just stays quiet. "In fact, it's so beautiful," he continues sarcastically and his gaze slowly drifts to her again, "that earlier today I thought I'd get us some coffee and drag you out of work for an hour or so."

The dots connect and her face pales; it's whiter than a ghost's by the time he finishes the sentence. "I would have told you," she says in a breath.

"You could have told me a minute ago," he points out flatly. "You didn't."

"Well, I thought I should pick my moment," she snaps back. "And judging by your charming performance, I was right."

"I'm sorry, am I not reacting… appropriately?" he sneers at her.

"You're overreacting," she sighs. "It was nothing."

"Didn't look that way from where I was standing," he bites back.

"And where were you standing, exactly?" she challenges.

He just glares and says nothing.

"Jess, he was in town. He just came to say hello," she says patiently.

"Well, if the hello was anywhere near as… involved… as the goodbye, I'm grateful I missed it," he scorns and empties the bottle.

"You're blowing this way out of proportion," she warns, frowning.

"Really? Because for a moment, right there on the street, I thought I was about to witness a full-fledged make-out session," he spits out maliciously, and suddenly feels nauseous for such a blatant display of jealousy, but still glares at her with conviction.

She wants to slap him in the face, but restrains herself, and grips the binder tighter instead. "It was just a hug," she points out gently.

"Whatever happened to shaking hands?" he challenges.

She sighs and shakes her head. "He's just a friend now, Jess."

"Do you crawl over all your friends?" he scoffs sardonically, but flinches inside as the expression on her face changes and her eyes turn cold.

"You're insulting me," she says quietly; the tone is icy but he doesn't care.

"Well, I'm sorry, but this whole thing is just a little too familiar for comfort," his voice drips with irony and her blood runs a little colder as he starts for the kitchen again.

Her eyes narrow. "Too familiar for comfort?" she repeats, turning after him.

Another beer comes out of the fridge. "Well, you have done it before," he says pointedly. "Granted, the circumstances are reversed, but the principle is the same," he shrugs.

"Done what, exactly?" There's definite warning in her tone, and a tiny voice inside his head screams that he's taken this far enough, but it fades quickly in the chaos of anger and jealousy.

"Gone back and forth between me and him," he says in flat tone, and there's a twisted sense of pleasure as he watches cloudy shadows settle in her eyes.

"I can't believe you just threw that in my face," she says blankly, shaking her head. "Again."

He shrugs and takes a sip. "I'm just being realistic," he points out matter-of-factly; the clouds in her eyes turn into a storm and instantly, he knows he's gone too far.

"You're a self-righteous idiot, Jess," she snaps at him. "How long are you going to hold that mistake over my head? Yes, it was a huge mistake, yes, I did a despicable thing, but I've been bending over backwards for months trying to explain why I did what I did, I apologized in every way I knew how and invented some new ones along the way, and you still won't let it go! What the hell is it that I need to do for you to get past that? Will you ever get past it? Or is it something you plan to wave in front of my face indefinitely?"

"Hey, it is what it is, I'm not going to pretend it never happened," he bites back viciously.

"I'm not asking you to!" she yells. "But you can't keep using it against me! You have to let these things go at some point, God knows I have!"

"Yes, well, I suspect it was somewhat easier for you to move past that particular incident," he scowls sarcastically.

"Oh, I wasn't talking about this particular incident, we've been through that enough times," she snaps back. "I was actually referring to the countless ways _you_ screwed up _my_ life for once, with all the running, and random reappearances featuring grand gestures and declarations, none of which ever amounted to anything because you just disappeared again right after you made them!" She watches his expression change, and a fleeting look of panic crosses his face before he catches himself, but it's enough for her to know the shoe is on the other foot now and he doesn't like wearing it. "Do you have any idea what that was like, always having to watch you disappear, and then just as I'd piece myself together, have you come back and make a mess of my life, and of course, disappear again? And now you stand here, and have the arrogance and the audacity to hold my mistakes against me, but refuse to accept any responsibility for your own! This, you and me, the way we were, the way we are, we are both responsible for this, not just me! But we can't keep doing this, assigning blame and rehashing past issues into eternity – at some point, you just have to let it go!"

"Well, clearly, it's easier for you to do than it is for me," he yells back. "Maybe you're just more effective at inflicting damage than I am!"

"Oh really? Just because I didn't drown myself in alcohol for months, you think you never hurt me as much as I hurt you? You think I didn't completely lose myself after every one of your little episodes? Jesus, Jess, that last time you left, I slept with Dean, that's how screwed up I was," she screams at him. "And he was married at the time!"

The words echo for an eternity, but the silence that follows them is even longer and much louder than any noise she's ever heard, and not even the cacophony of the metal band playing on the TV can drown it out. Her heart thumps wildly in her throat as she watches the expressions change on his face, his eyes growing darker the longer he glares at her, and she leans against the wall and clutches the binder in her hands so tight that her wrists hurt and her knuckles turn white from the strain. Had she thought about it, she probably wouldn't have said what she said - the words escaped her, but on some level, she's glad they did. It's good to get them out and unload that final piece of burden she's been carrying around, and for a moment, she doesn't care what happens next, and she just takes a deep breath, never taking her eyes off his.

"Dean? You slept with Dean?" he chokes out after a minute.

"Yes," she says simply.

He shakes his head and laughs mirthlessly. "And the fact that I left, and you jumped stright into bed with Dean – this is supposed to somehow be a testament to how much I've hurt _you_?" He rubs his eyes. "Are you insane?"

She gapes at him for a moment, fighting the urge to fling the binder at his head. "God, you're such a hypocrite," she says quietly. "By your own admission, you did the exact same thing probably a thousand times over, and you're going to stand there and -"

"It's not the same," he cuts her off fiercely.

"Yes, it's exactly the same, Jess! That's my point, but I guess your head is just too far up your ass to see it! We both made mistakes, we clobbered each other several times over, and there's no real difference between the hurt either of us inflicted or the idiotic choices we made in consequence!" She realizes she's yelling but she's past caring. "But there is one difference between us, Jess, and that is the fact that I'm trying very hard not to let whatever happened before influence what I do, or how I feel, here and now! Just for the record, not a day goes by that I don't wonder if you're just going to bolt again, but I refuse to let that possibility run my life!"

"Good for you," he raises his beer to her again. "It seems you've really got all your ducks in a neat little row and everything. Must feel really good to be so in control of yourself." He shrugs. "Sadly, I don't have that luxury."

"Wow, what a wonderful way to disguise the fact that you're just scared shitless," she throws back sarcastically.

"Hell yes I'm scared!" he yells at her. "You are the only thing in this world that can rip me to shreds and you've done an amazing job of it many times before, and as far as I know, you might be doing it again now! So forgive me if I can't quite make this leap of faith you're asking for, because each time I've made it before, I landed flat on my ass, and I'm not in a hurry to do that again!" He storms past her back into the living room, but before she can open her mouth, he rounds on her again. "And another thing," he lashes out, pointing the bottle at her. "Yes, I was an asshole way back when, I don't dispute that or intend to justify it, but there is one other difference between you and me that you neglected to mention - I never left you for anyone else. I never chose anyone over you, and you did it as a rule. This way or that, everyone else somehow came before me when you made your choices, so really, when I see you wrapped around that dick you've already picked over me once, I don't think it's that far-fetched or crazy of me to think that very same thing might be happening again!"

Suddenly, Rory realizes there's nothing she can say, because no matter what she says, it won't make any difference, not now, and maybe not ever. She also realizes this is not really even about her and Logan – and that particular realization actually comes as a relief. This is about trust, and clearly, he doesn't trust her any more now than he did that night at the supermarket, regardless of everything that happened in between. Slowly, she moves away from the wall and walks to the coffee table, where she lets the thick binder drop down with a thud.

"This is for you," she says quietly. "If you don't want it, just throw it out."

Determined not to look at him again, she takes her bag and starts for the door, but suddenly something on the TV catches her eye; she reaches for the remote and turns up the volume, then throws it across the room and walks out the door.

_...Me there on the other side,  
Wondering why I even try at all;  
Looking to my heart again  
With your x-ray eyes,  
Tell me what you're trying to see,  
Can't stand the way you look at me..._

He just stands there, staring into space, trying to bring some order into the chaos in his head, trying to figure out what just happened and the meaning behind it,trying to understand if this is actually what he wanted to accomplish, but all attempts to make sense of anything he'd said or did in the last hour fail miserably. She'd just walked out, and even though he has no clear idea what he expected her to do, he knows that this is definitely not it. And as if that's not enough, by some weird twist of circumstances, she's managing to make her point even without being in the room, and it soon gets overwhelming to hear it repeated over and over again, so he searches wildly for the remote control.

_...I put my hands up, I guess I'm guilty,  
Hands up - I must have done whatever you accuse me of,  
I stand up to hear your judgment  
It's always guilty..._

He unplugs the TV , but somehow, the words still resonate in the silence, and he hates the fact that there's so much truth in them.

* * *

_Lyrics used: Guilty, Tose Proeski (RIP)_

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	27. Dear Jess

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and special thanks to all the reviewers :o)

* * *

**27. Dear Jess**

Jess walks to the kitchen and pours another coffee; he then turns around and leans against the counter, staring at the binder on the coffee table again. It's still there, right where she left it; he hasn't touched it yet, he's just watched it from various spots around the apartment, just like he's watching it now – involved, but from a safe distance. He wants to know what's in there, and at the same time, he doesn't; he's curious, but resenting the fact that he is. There are various bits and pieces of her scattered around everywhere – books, clothes, notes, cds, magazines, pillows – but somehow, this binder outdoes them all, and he quickly finds himself playing a twisted guessing game with himself regarding its contents. He spends a ridiculous amount of time wondering what's inside, and it quickly turns into an obsession of sorts, and he wonders if he's ever going to open it. Doing so involves a choice, and he's fed up with choices and decisions for now; he's fed up with everything and nothing in the world feels right. It's like he's been walking around with a never-ending itch, and no matter how much he scratches it, the right spot just continues to shift and elude all his efforts to reach it.

He wonders if it will eventually drive him crazy.

…

"Mom, you're not hearing me, there has to be something I can do!" Rory yells into the phone as she paces around the room in aimless circles.

"Okay fine, then there is something you can do," Lorelai says exasperatedly.

Rory stops in mid-step. "What?" she asks expectantly.

"You can wait," Lorelai offers softly.

"Okay, so there has to be something _else_ that I can do," Rory grits through her teeth, pacing again.

"Honey, there are a million other things you can do, but none of those apply here," Lorelai tries again. "You can't force this… you just have to give it some time. And for the love of God, stop with the pacing before you tear a hole in the carpet."

Rory stops, frowning. "How on Earth did you know I was pacing?"

"You always do when you're freaked out to this degree," Lorelai says simply. "There's a clearly marked trail in the living room hardwood that still bears witness to that."

Rory slumps into the sofa and cradles a pillow in her lap. "I don't know if I can wait."

"Well, if you're serious about this – a concept I'm still having a difficult time with, just for the record – then waiting is your best bet," Lorelai reiterates firmly.

Rory sighs. "I hate it when you're so reasonable," she mutters into the phone.

"Yeah well, it doesn't come easy, believe me," Lorelai sighs. "We both know that's more your thing than mine."

"I really thought we had put all that mess behind us," Rory says sadly.

"Some messes take longer than others," Lorelai says gently. "You have to let him work it out for himself."

"What if he doesn't?" Rory asks in the smallest of voices, and Lorelai's heart cringes.

"He will," she says with conviction. "You left that binder over there, didn't you?"

Rory closes her eyes. "Yeah, I left it."

"Then just sit tight and wait," Lorelai repeats again. "It may take a while, but he'll work it out."

"It's been three days," Rory says weakly. "Each felt like a year."

Lorelai sighs. "You can't go over there, Rory, trust me. I know it's hard, and I know you're miserable, but seriously, if you want to make any headway in this, you can't go over there, you have to let him come to you. Everything up to now has more or less happened on your initiative… Jess just sort of… went along with it. You did everything humanly possible to prove you were in this all the way, but sadly, somehow, it wasn't enough, and there's nothing else you can do. You have to let him decide if he'll trust you – if you don't, you two may well get over this incident and go on somehow, but eventually, somewhere down the road, you'll just end up at exactly the same place you are now. You'll keep having the same fight over and over again until you both get tired of hearing the same arguments over and over again, until one day, neither of you can really see the point anymore, and by that moment, it will have turned into a mess that is beyond fixing."

Rory opens her eyes and looks out at the soft halo of the streetlight. "You're right," she says quietly. "I know you're right, but I feel like I'm going insane," she sighs. "I literally want to jump out of my skin. Sometimes, I feel like I could kill him with my bare hands, but at the same time, when I think that this might be it, I just… I can't breathe," she says miserably. "Seriously, sometimes I wonder if maybe I should just go ahead, find a suitable loony-bin and check myself in."

"Yeah, strange how being in love actually sucks on so many levels," Lorelai says solemnly.

"I've been in love before, it's just the feeling physically ill about it that's a first," Rory says exasperatedly.

Lorelai smiles. "Hon, if this is the first time in your life that you've wanted to claw at the walls over a guy, then I have to tell you, I don't think you've really been in love before," she chuckles. "The whole insanity bit sort of goes with the territory, and I can't even begin to describe the countless ways I have mentally devised to kill Luke over the years, and if all of that is a new thing for you, well… welcome to the club, I guess. You took out your membership kind of late, but finally, here you are. It sucks, and I promise you, it can get much worse than you're having it now. You're going to love it."

"It gets _worse_?" Rory gapes into the phone. "This is what you choose to tell me? God, you're hopeless at this, you know that, right?"

"Hey, I've distributed my pearls of wisdom earlier in this conversation," Lorelai says defensively. "And besides, now that you've finally tripped and fell in, the faster you learn to swim, the better off you'll be, trust me."

Rory sighs. "And on that cheerful note, I'm going to let you go, crawl into bed, and drown in my own misery, before you blurt out something that might actually make me feel better."

"Hey, I could tell you how Kirk ran through town stark naked last week," Lorelai offers enthusiastically.

Rory shrugs. "That's happened before."

"Ahh, but this time – no pillow," Lorelai points out.

"Oh God, there's a mental image I could have done without," Rory shivers. "Thanks so much for that one, Mom."

"You think you have it bad – I actually witnessed the big event," Lorelai sighs. "There's no way to un-see something like that."

Rory chuckles. "When you say 'big event'…"

"Let's just say, if he'd done something like that a few years ago, I suspect his social life would have been much… busier," Lorelai says playfully.

"Huh, imagine that," Rory chuckles.

"Sadly, I don't need to. The memory of the real thing will haunt me forever," Lorelai whines.

Rory laughs for the first time in days, and the sound is so strange to her that it throws her off for a moment, and there's a brief stretch of silence.

"He'll work it out, Rory," Lorelai says gently.

Rory nods, but a small maybe is actually all she allows inside.

…

"Okay, just how dense are you, really?"

Jess jerks the phone away from his ear and lets the room absorb the full blow of the holler.

"Yeah, I really missed you too", he says casually once Luke stops to catch his breath.

"Just skip the act, will you, it's getting old," Luke says, annoyed.

Jess grips the phone tighter. "I'm not having this conversation, Luke" he warns firmly.

"Oh, but we're having it, Jess," Luke says flatly. "I want to know what the hell is going on over there."

"And I want a million dollars," Jess quips sarcastically.

"How original," Luke snaps back. "If that's the best you can come up with, you've really lost your touch."

Jess grimaces, then switches gears. "Did Lorelai put you up to this?"

There's a shocked silence on the other end. "Jesus, you really are out of your mind," Luke says blankly.

"Right," Jess laughs. "She had nothing to do with this, you just happened to pick this particular point in time to call and scream at me."

"I picked this particular time to call because I live in this house and I heard one side of a somewhat disturbing conversation last night," Luke sighs.

"Right," Jess laughs again, shaking his head. "I'm sure that's how it happened."

"No, you're right. Rory called last night, and immediately afterward, we held an impromptu town meeting where, after a lengthy discussion and heated debate, it was decided I should call you and demand some answers," Luke snaps back.

Jess feels slightly stupid, but brushes it off quickly. "It's not an unimaginable scenario," he mutters defiantly.

Luke sighs. "Can we dispense with the bullshit now?"

"What the hell do you want from me, Luke?" Jess snaps angrily.

"I want you to tell me why Rory's calling in the middle of the night. I also want to know why you've suddenly reverted to this pigheaded version of yourself that I had to contend with for years, but had happily repressed the memory of in the meantime," Luke retorts with determination.

"It's none of your business," Jess mutters.

"Well, I respectfully disagree, so spill," Luke bites back.

Jess shakes his head. "I could just hang up, you know."

"You could," Luke agrees. "But if you do, don't bother ever picking up again."

"This is blackmail, you know that, right?" Jess points out ironically.

Luke chuckles. "Yeah, kind of sucks being on the receiving end, doesn't it?"

Jess curses inwardly then lights a cigarette and slowly walks out into the terrace.

"Jess, I've watched you love this girl for years, and it seems that now that you've finally got her, you're suddenly hell-bent on pushing her away. I just don't get it," Luke says quietly.

"It hasn't occurred to you that maybe she's the one that screwed it up, has it?" Jess asks jadedly.

"Well, is she?" Luke asks guilelessly.

"It's not that simple," Jess mumbles, slowly fuming inside.

"Nothing ever is with you two," Luke sighs.

Out of nowhere, an unexpected urge appears to spill his guts and it catches Jess completely by surprise; he's not sure whether it's due to what Luke said, or maybe just because of the way he said it, but Jess suddenly finds himself actually wanting to talk about the chaos in his head. It's such an alien concept that it renders him speechless for a moment, and he briefly wonders how to even go about it.

"Jess?" Luke's voice comes after a small eternity.

"Yeah," Jess says quickly. "Sorry, I think I just had a minor stroke or something."

"Right," Luke says exasperatedly. "You know what? Forget it. I give up. Just do your thing, and hopefully, you know what you're doing, and you know, if you need anything –"

"Shut up, Luke," Jess cuts him off quietly. "Just… stop talking for a minute, okay?"

There's a long distance silence and Jess sinks into his favorite chair and shuts his eyes against the sunlight.

"You're right," he finally blurts out, "there's something different about her. And these last few months, they've been… well, maybe the best part of my life. She does this to me, and she does it just by being here. But this feeling, I've known it with her before, until one or other thing happened and I'd lose her to something, or someone, and every time that happened, it was progressively worse to deal with. And it's happened every time, so pretty much, it's almost a rule by now, so it's safe to say it will happen again, sooner or later. Basically, these last few years have been twisted little cycles of being with her and then getting over her, and it's the getting over her part that I just don't think I can live through again."

Once the words are out of his mouth, there's such an overwhelming feeling of release that Jess doesn't even register the continuing silence on the other end of the line; he just sits completely still in the sunlight, grateful he's managed to get the words out.

"What makes you so certain you'll have to?" Luke's voice comes from a distance, pulling him back to reality.

"I always did before," Jess shrugs. "Why should this time be any different?"

"Maybe it will be," Luke points out.

Jess shakes his head. "Or maybe it won't," he says flatly.

There's a brief silence, and then a sigh. "Well, in that case, you're right."

Jess frowns. "I'm what?"

"Yeah, you're right," Luke repeats. "If you're so certain you never want to have to get over her again, then the best thing to do really is not to get yourself into a situation where you might have to."

Jess thinks this over for a moment, then frowns harder. "Is this some weird reversed psychology thing you're trying to pull?"

"Oh, and there's that priceless latent paranoia of yours acting up again.. I was wondering what happened to that. So nice to see it's still alive and kicking," Luke says blankly.

Jess shakes his head. "Well, if it's not a reverse psychology thing, then you actually just said I was right… Hell must be freezing over somewhere."

"Cute," Luke quips sarcastically, then lets the silence do the talking for a while again, but this time, Jess gets tired of it quickly.

"So really, I'm right?" he repeats, trying his best to sound indifferent.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Luke confirms. "I mean, you know, if that's the way you feel, it's better to get out now before you really get in over your head."

"Right," Jess agrees, somewhat suspicious.

"Good thing you haven't reached that point yet," Luke declares optimistically.

Jess frowns. "That point?"

"You know, that point where getting out would mean putting yourself through all that mess of getting over her again, only this time, you'd be doing it to yourself," Luke points out dully. "But seeing as you're not at that point, you'll just be in for a rough few days as opposed to, I don't know, months of misery and all that crap."

"Right," Jess echoes again, suddenly feeling like an idiot for reasons he can't quite pinpoint.

"Right," Luke reaffirms. "And hey, I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier. I was kind of freaked out, I thought you were doing something stupid again, but clearly, you've really thought this through, so… yeah, sorry."

"That's okay, don't worry about it," Jess hears himself say, but his mind is still preoccupied with the feeling he's missing something important here.

"So, what happens now?" Luke asks after a moment.

"What do you mean, what happens now?" Jess frowns.

"Well, I'm assuming you still have stuff to deal with," Luke says matter-of-factly. "You two were practically living together, so I guess there's still some loose ends to tie up… you know, her stuff, your stuff, return of keys and so on…"

"Yeah," Jess agrees, suddenly inexplicably resenting Luke.

"Just do me a favor and you know, be civil to her and all," Luke asks gently. "I mean, it's still Rory, and I'd hate to see her hurt more than she needs to be."

"What the hell is wrong with you, Luke? I'm not going to hurt her," Jess snaps violently.

"I know you won't, not intentionally," Luke says quickly. "All I'm saying is, just keep in mind this will probably be harder on her than it will be on you, since I'm pretty sure she's past that point you stopped just short of."

"Luke…"

"Just try to remember," Luke cuts him off, "that she'll probably be feeling something close to what you were feeling all those times she left you, you know what I mean? So, you know… be nice."

Jess swallows hard, suddenly feeling sick. "Yeah," he says lamely.

"Listen, I have to go, I have to open the diner and everything… I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Jess nods, his mind elsewhere. "Yeah, sure."

…

Luke hangs up the phone then looks at it, smirking slightly; just as he's about to put it away, a clapping sound comes from behind him and he turns to find Lorelai in the doorway, smiling at him.

"Now that was an Oscar winning performance," she grins widely.

He pushes his hands into his pockets. "How long have you've been standing there?"

She walks over and wraps her hands around him. "Ever since the latent paranoia bit," she says gently. "I have to say, that was one of the greatest manipulations I've ever witnessed, including those orchestrated and delivered by my mother." She laughs and looks at him. "You actually meddled, purposefully and with an agenda. I didn't think you had it in you."

Luke scratches his head. "I was worried he might screw himself over again."

Lorelai smiles. "I love you."

…

The screen turns black as the credits begin to roll and Jess feels around for the remote control; in the blind search, he pushes the binder off the coffee table and it lands on the floor with a loud thud, sending clouds of dust flying from the carpet. He watches them float around in the dark for while, backlit by the screen, before he turns his gaze on the binder. For the briefest moment, he hesitates; in the next one, he reaches for it, pulls it into his lap and opens the cover.

"_Dear Jess…"_

_

* * *

_

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	28. Alignment

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and special thanks and warm fuzzy feelings to all the reviewers :o)

* * *

**28. Alignment**

The pages turn into eternity, and he flips through them in awe; he doesn't even read them at first, he just turns one after the other and looks at the thick rows of letters like he would look at pictures in a photo album, catching random glimpses of familiar scenes. Here and there, a word or a passage leaps from the page and catches his eye, and he reads those, and even though he does it without any real comprehension and the words themselves are out of context, the greater meaning of it all still screams at him incessantly from every page.

There are years of feelings living in these pages, sometimes spelled out neatly and coherently, sometimes less so, and at first he spends long minutes noticing the subtle changes in her handwriting over time. He then moves to identifying the various little stains that still bear silent witness to moments long gone - a few seem like wine, some are definitely chocolate, but most are of coffee, and he counts the marks of six different coffee cups scattered around the pages.

There is a strange comfort in numbers, and once he's cataloged all the stains, he slowly flips backwards and counts the pages – there are 217. Going forwards again, he counts the letters – there are 76, but as impressive as those numbers are, it's the calculation of the time span that sends a shiver down his spine.

"…_I kissed you. I have a boyfriend, and I kissed you. I have a boyfriend who loves me, a boyfriend that I'm supposed to love back, and still, I kissed you. I wish I could somehow explain to myself what happened in that moment, I wish I could understand what it is about you that makes me jump on a bus and wander through New York in search of you, I wish I knew why it bothers me when people think badly of you, I wish I knew why I'm so certain they're wrong… I wish I knew why I kissed you, but most of all, I wish I could regret doing it…"_

A bittersweet smile escapes him as he reads; apparently there'd actually been a smoke signal all those years ago – it was just never sent out, and he rubs his eyes, wondering again why everything always came so hard for them, wondering how they'd always managed to misread each other so consistently and so very often, even though they'd both somehow always sensed something existed between them that should be recognized and explored.

"…_I've never wanted to physically hurt another living being in my life, but lately, I feel this incredible urge to slap you in the face within twenty seconds after you open your mouth. It's really ironic to think I spent so much time trying to think what I would say to you once I saw you again, while at the same time you were busy sucking what's-her-name's face. In a weird way, I feel I should thank you for the spectacle you two have been putting on around town, it finally made me see things clearly. I hope you two are very happy together – you definitely deserve each other. I'm done with letting any of that get to me, and as far as all those snide little comments of yours go, I hope one day you choke on them, and I hope to God it takes you at least a week of scrubbing to get those eggs off of your windshield. I only wish I had more with me at the time, because a dozen eggs is nowhere near enough to compensate for all your crap. Jerk…"_

He can't help smirking at this, because he can see her face so clearly as he reads the words, he remembers vividly how her eyes had shot daggers at him for weeks after she'd returned home that summer and he has no problem believing she really would have liked to strangle him with her bare hands. He remembers, because he'd wanted to do the same thing, but he'd been better equipped to deal with the situation simply because he'd been dealing with it for much longer than she had – he'd watched her walk around with Dean for months before that and so he'd already had a finely tuned strategy of wisecracks and mockery firmly in place, and all he had to do was fall right back into it. He never really expected any of it to work, yet somehow, amazingly, it did.

"…_Something happens when you kiss me, something new and indescribable, something that stops time and obliterates the world, and for a while, only that kiss exists. I forget myself completely and it comes much too easy and much too fast, I lose myself in these feelings and every time it happens, it's much more difficult to stop, because I don't really want to stop anyway… Yet there's this voice, this little voice inside my head that tells me it's too soon, and regardless of all the wonderful chaos of sensations, I can still hear it screaming at me and although I hate hearing it, I know it's right, because there's still something missing here, and I just can't find that missing piece of you. The strangest thing is that I don't really even know what I'm looking for, but I just can't help feeling that you're not entirely here, like there's some part of you that always just beyond my reach, slipping through my fingers somehow, and that scares me. Sometimes it goes so far that, in a way, if you just vanished into thin air tomorrow, I wouldn't even be surprised."_

He glances at the date and cringes, thinking how impossibly correct she'd been; it took less than a week for him to do the very thing she'd been afraid of. At the time, he didn't know he'd do it, yet she'd sensed it coming, she'd somehow known instinctively just how much distance she should keep, and now, he's grateful beyond words for that instinct. He's grateful because if it hadn't been for that vague sense of self-preservation, he surely would have managed to hurt her much worse than he did, and then, she would have really hated him.

"…_It's been twenty seven days, and I wish you'd said goodbye. You actually did, I realize that now, you said it on the bus, you said it in that look you gave me, but for once, I wish you'd used the actual words and not made me decipher the meaning in your eyes, or in the silence at the other end of the line. It would have been fair. It would have allowed me to get angry. It would have allowed me to yell at you. It would have allowed me to tell you not to go, even though I'm so sure you would have gone anyway, so that doesn't really matter.  
It's been twenty seven days, and I've been trying my best to be angry with you, trying my best not to think about you and not to wonder where you are and what you are doing. Twenty seven days is long enough to spend in denial, so now, I officially give up. I'm not angry. I think about you every day and in my mind's eye, I see you all over town. I know I should just gather all your stuff, designate a Jess box and put you out of my head, but I can't make myself do it. I just…miss you." _

He swallows hard against a familiar feeling of guilt and shame, wondering again how he could have been so stupid to leave like he did, trying to remember what he was thinking at the time and what it was he thought he'd accomplish by leaving. The answer doesn't come, and he doesn't think there ever really was one; that great escape simply came out of sheer fright of having to deal with failing everyone that meant anything to him at the time. He remembers watching her walk down from that bus, and he remembers the panic that gripped him when he realized he was leaving her, but somehow, instead of making him turn back, the feeling just made him sit tighter. He suddenly realized he cared too much, he cared enough to consider turning everything he was upside down in the face of his feelings for her; he'd never felt anything even remotely close to that ever before, and it was a frightening concept and one he didn't know how to deal with. He'd stayed on that bus, and it was a stupid choice to make, but he now hesitantly wonders if maybe the choice he's made a few days ago was just as stupid, or even more so, because now he doesn't have the excuse of being a teenager to justify making it.

"_I love you too…but once again, you ran away before I had the chance to tell you…" _

This one he skips over quickly, unwilling to dwell on the words or the long list of might-have-beens that sprouts into existence when he wonders what would have happened if he had hung around long enough to hear her say the actual words, so he moves on. Hours fly by quickly as she speaks to him from the pages, and he never moves an inch; he doesn't let go of her to light a cigarette, to make coffee, to stretch his legs or even to close his eyes for a moment. He just turns the pages and lives through the feelings outlined in them, feelings recorded through months and years, feelings that are amazingly constant and lingering in the face of all other changes in her life.

"…_The ponies run, the girls are young, the odds are there to beat.  
You win a while, and then it's done – your little winning streak.  
And summoned now to deal with your invincible defeat,  
You live your life as if it's real, a thousand kisses deep..."_

He reads the lines, then looks at the date; he recognizes it instantly because that particular day and everything about it are seared into his memory forever. She didn't write anything else, just those few lines, and it is the only time throughout the whole binder she reached for someone else's words, the only time she couldn't find any of her own. She'd made a good choice, and he reads the verses again, and suddenly realizes that the feeling they communicate is very much the same as what he experienced after she'd left Truncheon that night… disappointment, sadness, despair, resignation… It's all there, and it's stupefying that they had somehow both felt the same thing, but again, somehow, managed to miss their chance, misinterpret and misjudge it, and make a mess they still hadn't managed to fix.

"…_I drove home yesterday and passed through a town along the way; the town itself is completely unremarkable, but there was a boy sitting at a bus stop by the side of the road. It was cold outside, it was late, and I don't think any bus was scheduled to appear for hours, but he just sat there under the icicles, muffled in a hoodie, reading a book. It was such a familiar, endearing scene that I just pulled over across the street and… waited. I don't know what I was waiting for. I have no idea how long I sat there, watching this random incarnation of you, wondering if there was an incarnation of me somewhere in that town, wondering if they'd found each other yet, and hoping that if they had, they would do a better job of it than you and I did. Eventually, the bus did come; the boy went inside and as I watched the bus pull away, I couldn't help feeling like I'd lost something all over again…"_

The night unceremoniously seeps into dawn when he starts on the letters for the second time around, and as the sun climbs higher in the sky and one of its lazy rays sneaks across the carpet, an overwhelming truth reveals itself between the lines and turns his world upside down in one shocking second.

She had always been true to her feelings about him, immeasurably more so than he had; over all the years, she'd never made any attempt to deny or avoid them, to get over them or put them behind her. She had just… accepted them as a part of herself, as something that would always be present, something that would always exist alongside anything else she might be feeling for anyone else at any given moment. When everything else changed, those feelings never did, and she kept them alive within herself, and that was a part of her that no one and nothing could ever reach or share; it was the part of her that she set aside for him alone.

It comes suddenly and unexpectedly, this realization, and it comes like a violent kick in the stomach that leaves him out of breath and sends a freezing jolt down his spine, a jolt that resonates with cold shock-waves that shoot up and down as his mind struggles to deal with this stunning truth. The first feeling that he gradually becomes aware of is shame, and it washes over him in a tidal wave that quickly turns to fierce guilt as he understands that she'd been keeping him close and precious through all this time while he'd done everything humanly possible to rid himself of anything and everything that reminded him of her. While he was out chasing after any available scenario that would put her out of his system, she'd poured her thoughts and memories of him into all these letters she knew she would never send; she'd thought of him with longing and affection while he was fervently wishing he'd never laid eyes on her, and now it's painfully clear to him that through all the disasters, the misunderstandings, the fights, the lies, the break-ups and the make-ups, she was always so much more honest than he ever was. At some point, they'd both given up on one another in terms of reality, but she'd never given up on the dream; she'd never tried to replace him with anyone, and even when she wasn't able to admit her feelings to him, she'd never hidden them from herself.

He takes his eyes off of the pages for the first time in hours and stares at the ceiling, suddenly realizing that through all these years, nothing's really changed - he's still the same ill-adjusted, misplaced kid that stepped off of a bus in a quirky town once upon a lifetime… and just like he ran out on everything meaningful and valuable in his life when he ran from that town years later, it's now painfully clear he'd made the same colossal mistake again a few days ago when he let her walk out the door.

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_Lyrics used: A Thousand Kisses Deep, Leonard Cohen_

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_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	29. The Last One

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and special thanks to all the reviewers :o)  
Also, I'd appreciate it if everyone refrained from objecting to EmmaR2's review, vociferously or otherwise ;o) - I actually enjoyed that one as much as any other.

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**29. The Last One**

Rory leaves work earlier than she's supposed to and blames her premature departure on a weather-induced headache; it's one of those soggy, overcast days that hints at sunshine behind the clouds but it never really appears. She walks down the street and the wind that brushes against her face is unnaturally warm in the humid air; everything about the day desperately calls for rain, yet there is none – there is just the insanely thick, overbearing saturation in the air that makes it difficult to breathe and almost impossible to connect two semi-reasonable thoughts together. She looks up and wishes for rain again, almost willing it to come down with a fury and break this hopeless tension before it drives her flat out of her mind.

The relief she felt when she escaped the office is short-lived; she barely reaches the end of the street before it occurs to her she really has nowhere to go and nothing to do except toss the same desperate thoughts around her head that she's been dissecting and analyzing for a week. No matter where she goes or what she does, the thoughts will follow, hand in hand with the anxiety and the perpetual feeling of restlessness that makes her wander around in aimless circles, as if moving will somehow help her leave it all behind. She looks at the people around her and envies them on their destinations and sense of purpose; somehow, inexplicably, she had completely lost hers within the last seven days.

She turns a few corners and crosses some streets; she walks by a hot-dog vendor and tries to remember if she's eaten anything today, but the answer doesn't come and by the time the traffic lights on the next intersection change, the thought evaporates from her head, giving way to the familiar feeling of gloom and misery. A few steps later, just as she wonders if this is the moment when she'll finally burst at the seams and start crying, fate smiles on her and puts a bookstore in her path, and she rushes towards it as if she'd come across a solitary tree in a desert.

There is peace here, or at least a semblance of it, and for her it comes from the silence, the feel of paper under her fingers, and the elusive smell that rises from the pages – this place, and others like it, are after all her proverbial church. Books are familiar and comforting, and each represents a world that she can escape to and get lost in, and she does this eagerly; she only makes one small concession to her inner turmoil and aims for the children's section where the worlds are mostly bright and cheerful and don't tend to go up in smoke. She finds an empty corner and sits in a brightly colored chair, grateful that she's alone and therefore doesn't have to endure strange looks that an adult sitting in a tiny chair might otherwise draw; absentmindedly, she runs her hand along the shelf and picks a random means of escape.

…

It catches him by surprise when she emerges from work so much earlier than he expected, and as he watches her walk down the street, he suddenly realizes he's completely unprepared to face her and has no idea how to say what he wants to say. She all but disappears in the crowd before he finds the presence of mind to follow, but from a safe distance, at least until he figures out how to translate this inner chaos into actual words.

She walks slowly and he soon understands she's roaming and there's no real destination in her mind. Random walks are, after all, his specialty; the wandering rhythm is easy enough to recognize and he matches it easily, putting one foot in front of the other automatically as his mind drifts in tune, thoughts and feelings swarming inside as he tries to apply some order to them. He doesn't need much, he just needs enough to piece together a few coherent sentences, but all he draws is a blank. Certain that if he faced her now, he'd just gawk and stutter incoherently, he puts his headphones on and, keeping his distance, shares this aimless stroll of hers.

A few blocks and a _Moist_ album later, there's a subtle change in her pace; a sense of purpose suddenly appears in it and a few moments later, he sees her disappear into a bookstore. A smile escapes him and he knows it may be a while before he sees her again; grateful for the intermission, he looks around for a coffee shop and picks one across the street where he settles at a table partly hidden by a topiary. He waits, his gaze fixed on the bookstore windows and his mind still scrambling for proper words.

Maybe there are no proper words; maybe they're not even important. Maybe they won't need any words at all, he thinks hopefully, but the moment the thought enters his mind, he dismisses it quickly because it's ultimately the lack of communication that landed them in this mess they're in right now. They'd never said the right things at the right time, they'd both either held back feelings when they should have expressed them or blurted them out in twisted ways and impossible situations, and it all just amounted to a sad history of misinterpretation and misunderstanding, a history that has to end if there's to be any future for this thing that had somehow, through all the chaos and the mess, miraculously stayed alive between them.

But the history is important nonetheless; it's important for both of them to understand all the choices and the mistakes they made. She'd laid hers out in letters, and he needs to do the same somehow, but the words just refuse to form and slowly, he's getting scared they never will. Just as his blood begins to chill at the prospect, a voice echoes in his ears with words that are perfect; they're not his, and the voice belongs to a stranger, but all the same, they are everything he's been looking for and he listens intently and with immeasurable relief as they tell a story he's actually lived through. Once it ends, he doesn't give it a second thought; he just quickly pays for his coffee and walks across the street and, taking a breath, steps into the bookstore.

…

Out of nowhere, she feels it again – that change in atmosphere, a shift of feelings, a subtle variance in her surroundings, and instinctively she somehow sees him long before her eyes drift up from the page. It's been only days, but there's something so remarkably different about him that it seems to her she hasn't seen him in years; it's mostly in his eyes, but she also catches a few creases around his mouth that weren't there before. For a moment, he seems strange and distant as he towers over her, and she suddenly feels ridiculous and small sitting in her tiny yellow chair, but in the next heartbeat he just lowers himself into the adjacent red one unceremoniously, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

She wants to says something, but it's beyond her capabilities for the moment, and she'd gladly trade any fortune for him to speak, but he doesn't; instead, he just reaches for his headphones and moves them around her head - unwillingly, she winces slightly at the touch and immediately regrets it as a hurt looks sneaks into his eyes. He hesitates for a second, but then slowly settles the headphones over her ears and retreats; watching her intently, he props his elbows on his knees and waits.

_Today I saw a face I only dream of  
I recognized  
the feeling that I used to know  
from another time and space I thought I left  
long ago..._

It's another puzzle, this moment and everything in it, from that lingering, unguarded look in his eyes to the lines that echo in her head and unfold into something familiar in the feeling they describe, that vague but persistent desire that always took over whenever she laid eyes on him, regardless of anything or anyone else that may have occupied her thoughts just a moment before. It's a feeling she knows well, but her heart beats faster now that she knows this is something that lives within him too.

_We took our separate ways  
but in our hearts we'll never change  
throw it all away  
could we go back once again  
I learned to carry on, I learned to face another day  
without her, without a trace...  
So close we nearly touched  
I almost took her hand in mine  
time can fall away  
but nothing can change the man inside  
or bring us back the love once we denied..._

The words bring flashbacks of scenes they'd lived through and she listens sadly as she replays them once again in her mind, the fights and the misunderstandings and all the things they were always too proud or too stubborn to say, all the feelings they wouldn't admit or own up to, and all the time they'd thrown away over doubts, out of spite or endless insecurities, and for the first time, she actually wonders if it's all gone past any chance to fix. Maybe it has; maybe this is just an absurd, poetic goodbye ridiculously staged in colorful chairs in the middle of fairy-tales that really only exist in children's books.

He watches her carefully, studiously, like he's examining a masterpiece he stumbled upon by chance and would never have the opportunity to scrutinize again. Every shadow that darts across her face, every frown on her forehead and every twitch of her mouth is noticed and assigned meaning to, yet somehow, there's no definite conclusion he can draw from any of it, so he just holds his breath and braces himself as she slowly pulls the headphones off .

"What is this?" she asks softly, slowly gesturing with the headphones.

The question comes as a surprise and brings a wave of confusion, because there are a million answers to it and he can't think of one in the face of the searching look she gives him. The silence stretches and now is definitely not the time to let it grow. "It's just… me, I guess," he finally blurts out, unable to come up with anything better.

She smiles sadly. "Yes, it's you, it's me, it's this whole mess wonderfully dissected," she sighs, and drops the headphones in her lap, wrapping and unwrapping the wire around her fingers. "But what is it, really? You being here, and this song, and this look you're giving me… How did you even know where to find me?" She shakes her head. "I'm so tired, Jess, I'm tired of these guessing games, I'm tired of justifying myself and explaining myself and apologizing, and I can't understand why it's so hard for you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I –"

"I love you," he cuts her off quickly, suddenly knowing that is the only thing he needs to tell her, and the words are so simple and obvious that he's completely baffled he spent the entire day in search of them, because really, they've been there all along, staring him right in the face, thoroughly natural and reachable.

She stops in mid-sentence and stares at him, eyes wide and lips parted, like she'd been frozen solid or turned to stone, looking dazed and shocked beyond description.

"I love you," he repeats again, enunciating every word slowly and purposefully; she still doesn't move and this stillness is slowly turning his blood to ice. "Come on, Rory, would you just breathe or blink or scream or slap me in the face or do anything that will wipe this stroke-victim look off your face," he says quietly and drops his head in his hands, staring at the floor.

Slowly, she unclenches and a small smile sneaks across her lips. "I was actually waiting to see if you're going to bolt," she says quietly; it sounds like an attempt at a cautious joke and he looks up at her quickly and finds that her lips really are curved upwards, even if it's at the smallest angle.

"I'm not bolting," he declares plainly.

"And I'm not cheating on you," she counters softly.

He drops his head again. "I know," he says quietly. "I was an idiot."

She nods slowly. "You were," she says simply and takes a breath. "But in spite of that, and everything else… or maybe even because of it all, I don't know… I love you too."

His head turns in a flash and he looks at her sideways, unable to hold back a grin. "That's the first time I heard you say that."

A brief smile crosses her face. "I know. Sorry about the setting, I never really pictured myself saying it crouched on a kid chair, but you know, there it is."

"Does the chair make it any less true?" he asks with a smirk.

"No," she concedes gently, and the smirk turns into a smile.

"Then the setting is perfect," he says simply and slowly reaches for her hand. She lets him have it, and watches him untangle her fingers from the wires and lace them with his. A small smile curves her lips again but vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, and she shakes her head. "Just the fact that I love you and you love me - it may not be enough," she says quietly. "I need to trust you, and I need you to trust me. I also need you to forgive me, really forgive me and let go of everything I once did, just like I'm willing to let go of all your mistakes, because otherwise, we'll just be stuck in the same endless miserable loop forever." She holds her breath and looks at him. "Can you do that?"

He smiles and brings her hand up to his lips. "I promise," he says with a smile and plants a small kiss against her knuckles.

She watches him carefully and slowly retreats her hand. "Just like that?" she asks, frowning. "That's a pretty big leap from a few days ago."

"I know," he rubs his hands over his face and sighs. "But I don't know how to explain it to you."

She shrugs. "Then figure it out. I need to know what's going on inside your head. All of it," she says simply.

He looks at her and wonders how to phrase the chaos, but no strategy presents itself, so he gives up any attempts at being methodical about it and slips into imagery. "You grew up surrounded by love– and I don't just mean your mom, you had a whole town of people loving you, and yes, some were total freaks, there were even some potential mental patients, but nonetheless, loving someone and being loved back is something that is second nature to you. It's almost something that's a given. Not so with me. No one ever really cared for me, or took any interest in me until I landed at Luke's. God knows, I never cared for anything or anyone before then, and I never loved anyone before I met you." He shakes his head, frowning. "And loving you, it was the weirdest thing I ever experienced, it somehow brought out the best and the worst in me, and I loved and hated that at the same time. I loved it because it made me happy, but I hated it because I wasn't in control of it, I couldn't just brush it aside and forget about it if I so chose. To love someone is to depend on them, and I never depended on anyone for anything, and to let myself feel that way just went against everything I'd known or believed to be good for me." He looks at her and frowns harder. "All throughout my life, people had been a major disappointment, so I trained myself not to need them. I didn't need anyone, I didn't trust anyone, and I sure as hell didn't care about anyone to the point where I'd have to think twice about never seeing them again. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there was you."

He falls silent and she looks at him, but senses he's not done, and even though his eyes still rest on her face, the gaze somehow travels past her so she stays quiet and waits for him to continue.

"There was always this amazing thing about you," he smiles absentmindedly after a while, "you somehow managed to crawl under my skin and suddenly you were just there, and I had no idea how it happened, and once I was aware of it, it was already done and over with. You were there and I sure as hell didn't want you to be, but getting rid of you proved an impossible mission. It was just as undo-able back then as it proved to be every time I attempted it since, and it drove me insane because I didn't know how to deal with it."

She nods, smiling a little. "Yeah, it drove me insane too. You were insufferable in every other respect, yet there was something about you that was larger than all of that. And through everything that happened later…"

"…that feeling never changed, I know," he takes over, shaking his head. "But on many other levels, I guess I just felt you always chose so many other people over me, and I felt it happened over and over again, and even after all of that crap, I still couldn't get you out of my system and when you left Truncheon, the glass just… tipped over and the whole self-destruction phase ensued." His brows knit together and he rubs his eyes. "Once I was over here, things picked up, and just as I felt close to normal again… there you were, being everything I loved and then so much more than ever before because you were available and willing and trying so hard, and as always, completely impossible to resist, but all that stuff that happened before still stung, and I couldn't let go of it. I was happy, but everything just seemed too good to be true, and on some level, I was always waiting for something to screw it up. I was so sure something had to, and when I saw you with what's-his-name, I just thought – okay, here we go, this is it."

It's not an easy story to hear, but she listens intently and never looks away, waiting for the moment of truth to come, waiting to find out what it was that made him come here today and finally talk about what he's feeling as opposed to shouting it at her or hiding it in random sarcastic remarks.

"I was an idiot," he repeats, "but trusting people doesn't come easy for me, and sadly, trusting you came even harder."

She scoots closer to him and props her hands on her knees, matching his position and leveling her face with his. "So what made you change your mind?" she asks softly, searching his eyes; the question makes him smile and he reaches for a stray strand of her hair and tucks her behind her ear.

"I finally realized you were just as screwed up as I was," he chuckles gently. "You devil-egged my car. You stole a yacht. You slept with Dean. You wrote letters to me when you never thought you'd see me again. All acts of a truly disturbed, desperate, angry and miserable individual, and that was something I could relate to, something I understood, something you never would have done if you'd been as happy as I always thought you were." He shrugs. "Until I read those letters, I never really believed you loved me like I loved you, in that all-consuming, chaotic, rampant kind of way that renders everything else insignificant and obsolete. You hid it too well."

"It scared me," she says quietly. "There was no order or end in those feelings, and I was scared to act on them, but they were always there."

Silence descends and for a while they just look at each other, somewhat uncertain what to do with all this clear air between them now that the past has been neatly packed into a box and the box placed under a bed, never to be revisited. Right on cue, a kind face appears behind the bookshelf and informs them the store is about to close; they smile apologetically and slowly wander back into the street. It only takes a few steps for his hand to rest on her shoulder and her finger to hook in the back pocket of his jeans and they easily fall into the familiar walking rhythm.

"So what happens now?" Rory asks cautiously when they turn a corner.

Jess smirks. "I'm thinking, we go home and get naked."

"Is that all you think about?" she chuckles.

He laughs. "After a week-long dry-spell? Pretty much, yeah."

"Men," she shakes her head.

He smirks. "Okay, correct me if I'm wrong, but as I see it, we had a huge fight, then a week of frustration and misery, then there was the deep, heart-wrenching, meaningful discussion that cleared the air, during which even declarations of love were exchanged. True?"

"True," she agrees.

"Right, so the best sex ever is the very logical next step," he chuckles.

She laughs but still shakes her head and he throws her a brief sideways glance. "Come on, just admit it – you're thinking the same thing," he whispers into her ear, and tingles quickly dance across her skin.

"I am now," she admits with a smile. "Okay, so then what happens tomorrow?"

He laughs. "Hopefully, more of the same."

She stops under a streetlamp and faces him, trying to suppress a smile. "Do you have any plans that don't involve sex?"

He pulls her closer and kisses her neck. "Not for the next week or so, no," he mutters against her skin.

She pulls on his hair gently and makes him face her. "And what about beyond next week?" she asks gently, hiding her hands in the pockets of his jacket.

He cradles her face in his hands and runs his thumbs down her cheeks. "Beyond next week is the future," he says softly and smiles at the little frown that forms on her forehead before he traces it with his lips.

"So, any plans for the future?" she asks quietly into his jacket.

He tilts her head back gently and his breath brushes against her lips. "Just that," he whispers. "The future."

THE END

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_A/N: _

_A few things I wanted to say :o)  
First of all, 500+ reviews... I can barely believe it, but the number is up there, so I have no choice. Thank you all so much, the fact that you enjoyed this story means the world to me, especially because writing it came so much harder than it did with Of Books And Music. Go figure..._

_Secondly, a while ago I developed an obsession with the song quoted in this chapter, and in my mind, it sort of became a soundtrack for this story. The obsession reached such freakish limits I actually made a Rory/Jess video - if you should choose to take a look, the link is posted in my profile, but be warned: 1) It's my first video ever, so don't expect a masterpiece. I did it for fun. 2) The song is called Separate Ways, it's from an english album by Tose Proeski, a young macedonian singer who recently died in a car crash, and the album was released after his death. He wasn't a native speaker, and this is noticeable in his singing. Also, the version I used seems to be a demo of sorts, i.e., it's different from the official version released on the album, there are fewer production finesses etc. You've been warned, but in my opinion, all the mentioned imperfections just make it that much better._

_Third, and most important - I wish everyone a wonderful Christmas!  
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_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


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